If the Slipper Fits

by Olivia Drake

  Nicholas. She was speaking of his nephew. Simon had never felt more brainless—or more frustrated. He crossed his arms and hoped she had no notion of what had been going through his mind. “I thought I’d made it clear that you’d disrupt his schedule.”

  “I won’t, I give you my solemn vow. I’ll be most accommodating to his tutor and the other servants. Please, he’s just a little boy who needs a mother. And I—I would very much like to have this chance to prove my worth.”

  The hint of desperation in her eyes grabbed at him. He knew nothing of her background except what Clarissa had mentioned in the letter, that Miss Quinn had been employed as a teacher in Yorkshire. Now he found himself inordinately curious. Was she just another impoverished woman like thousands of others? Or had something else happened in her past to make her look so desperate?

  Too bad. It wasn’t his responsibility to save every lost soul in the world.

  Nevertheless, Simon found himself abandoning his better judgment and saying, “Fine, I accept your proposal. Just stay out of my way. Both you and the boy.”

  Chapter 5

  Following the housekeeper through a maze of dark corridors, Annabelle quelled the urge to skip and dance. She had done it. She had convinced Lord Simon to hire her as governess—at least temporarily. The bargain would cost her a bit of income, but the sacrifice of half a month’s wages was preferable to being summarily dismissed from the castle with no prospects. At least now she’d have a roof over her head and the opportunity to prove her worth.

  And by the heavens she would prove herself. That disagreeable, arrogant, condescending nobleman would soon wonder how he’d ever managed without her on staff.

  Mrs. Wickett, a dour woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a ring of jangling keys at her waist, stopped outside a closed door. The oil lamp in her hand cast monstrous shadows over her plain features. “’Tis the nursery,” she said. “’Ee must be quiet lest we disturb His Grace.”

  “Is he already asleep, then?”

  “At six sharp he takes his dinner, then at six-thirty he reads fer a bit. At seven, ’tis lights out.”

  “That seems rather early for an eight-year-old.”

  “’Tis the master’s wishes.” Mrs. Wickett pruned her lips. “’Ee must heed his lordship’s timetable. The schedule be on the wall right inside here.”

  The housekeeper opened the door and led the way into the nursery suite. The wavering light of the lamp revealed a spacious schoolroom with pint-sized tables and chairs, a globe on the teacher’s desk, and numerous low bookshelves filled with volumes. Rain pattered against the nearly dark windows.

  “His Grace’s chamber be through there,” Mrs. Wickett murmured, pointing toward a doorway where a faint light could be seen at the end of a long corridor. “Ah, there be the nursemaid.”

  A rotund woman in a homespun gown and apron came waddling out of the room across from His Grace’s. She was smothering a yawn behind her hand. Upon entering the schoolroom, she made a servile bob of her head to Mrs. Wickett.

  “Miss Quinn,” the housekeeper said, “this be Elowen. She helps His Grace in bathin’ and dressin’ as well as cleanin’ the nursery. Elowen, Miss Quinn be the duke’s new governess. Henceforth, ’ee’ll be answerin’ up t’ her orders.”

  Elowen flicked a rather dull, bovine glance at Annabelle. “Aye, mum. The cheel is abed.”

  Her accent was even thicker than Mrs. Wickett’s, but Annabelle gathered that the cheel meant “the child.”

  “Go and fetch a denner tray fer Miss Quinn,” the housekeeper said. “Be quick about it now.”

  Elowen trudged out the door.

  Mrs. Wickett clucked her tongue. “Never in a hurry, that one, but she’s good and loyal t’ His Grace. Come, ’ee’ll stay in the other wing.”

  She proceeded through a doorway on the side of the schoolroom opposite the duke’s quarters. Annabelle trailed the woman down a short passage and then into a small bedchamber with a narrow iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, and a single straight-backed chair. The stone walls were barren of decoration, but Annabelle knew the gloominess would be rectified once her belongings were delivered. Already she wondered where to hang her embroidered samplers and the small wooden cross she’d owned since childhood.

  Muttering, the housekeeper took a corner of her apron and wiped the crockery bowl atop a washstand. “Cobweb,” she grumbled. “If I’d known t’ expect ’ee, the place woulda been spit-spot.”

  “I’ll be happy to tidy the room myself. I don’t wish to cause any trouble for anyone.”

  “’Tis the maid’s duty t’ clean,” Mrs. Wickett said with a look of disapproving shock. “What manner of house dost ’ee hail from?”

  Annabelle realized her blunder. At the academy, she’d been expected to assist the staff in everything from delivering the mail to washing dishes in addition to her duties as a teacher of etiquette. But now, as governess, she occupied one of the highest positions in the household. Menial work would be considered beneath her.

  “In Yorkshire, I taught at a school rather than a house,” she said in an effort to smooth the woman’s ruffled feathers. “I’m sure I’ll learn your customs here soon enough.”

  “Hmph.” Lifting the glass globe of the lamp, Mrs. Wickett used the flame to light a candle on the bedside table. Then she whisked the dustcover off the bed and tucked it beneath her arm. “Elowen will make ’ee a fire after she brings dinner. Now, mind ’ee be ready at dawn. His lordship don’t like slouches. Night t’ee.”

  The housekeeper bustled out of the chamber, taking the lamp with her. “Good night to you, too,” Annabelle called after her.

  As the sound of the woman’s brisk footsteps faded away, she sank onto the straight-backed chair and looked around with interest. A sense of happy anticipation simmered inside her. She was a governess at last. This stone-walled room would be her new home for the coming year until the young duke went off to boarding school.

  Unless, of course, Lord Simon sent her away before then.

  The thought dampened her high spirits. From a distance came the rhythmic crashing of the waves. The tapping of the rain on the single high window made Annabelle aware of how alone she was. Things had not turned out in quite so sunny a manner as she’d imagined on the long mail coach ride here.

  Lord Simon did not want her here. And he ruled the household with an iron fist. He had made his views crystal clear. I am the boy’s guardian. I make the decisions regarding his care. And I say he is too old for a governess.

  Yet he had engaged her services nonetheless. Could it be he was not so unyielding as he wanted people to believe? Or was he merely a spendthrift who sought to take advantage of her free labor? Whatever the case, Annabelle intended to heed his parting words.

  Just stay out of my way. Both you and the boy.

  She shivered, as much from the harshness of his words as the chill in the air. What a dreadful thing for him to say about his own nephew! She could only imagine how the young duke must feel to be shunned by his closest relative. If he hadn’t already been put to bed, she would have enjoyed meeting the boy tonight.

  The bedchamber had no clock, but surely it couldn’t be much later than seven. Despite the long and arduous day, she felt too full of energy to sleep. It would have been a pleasure to unpack her books or to pass the time with needlework. Lady Milford had been kind enough to provide a generous clothing allowance, which Annabelle had used to purchase fabric and thread for several gowns. Unfortunately, though, all of her belongings were packed in the trunk she’d left at the Copper Shovel.

  The notion of continuing to sit here, gazing into the semidarkness, held little appeal. She felt impatient to take up her duties and cement her position in the household. Perhaps it might be wise to familiarize herself with the duke’s daily schedule.

  Taking the pewter candlestick, Annabelle ventured out into the darkened schoolroom. She made a slow circuit of the chamber, holding up the candle to see better. She looked through the teacher’s
desk to find pens and paper, a chart of multiplication tables, along with slates and chalk. There were no toys anywhere, not even a rocking horse or a set of marbles. Didn’t wealthy children have lots of games and toys? She’d gathered as much from the chatter of the girls at Mrs. Baxter’s Academy. Perhaps the duke’s playthings were kept elsewhere.

  Annabelle walked to the schedule that was tacked to the wall beside the door. By the flickering light of the candle, she perused the long list written in a man’s heavy black script. 7:00 wake & dress, 7:30 morning prayers, 8:00 breakfast, 8:30–11:30 lessons, 12:00 luncheon, 12:30–1:30 silent study … The list continued on with notations as to which subjects were to be taught on specific days. Lessons were taught until four-thirty each afternoon, and afterward, reading was recommended for the duke to keep up with his studies.

  Did His Grace never have the chance to run outdoors and explore nature like a normal child? Apparently not.

  A flurry of raindrops struck the windows, an accompaniment to her troubled reflections. At least the schedule explained the lack of toys. Nicholas was allotted no time to play. How sad to think of him living such a regimented life. It reminded Annabelle of her girlhood when she’d been required to help the maids with the cleaning. Often, she’d gazed outside, longing for the chance to use a skipping rope or to climb a tree.

  Nicholas was a duke, yet he had no leisure to be a child, either. Did he at least have the opportunity to have other children as friends? Or did Lord Simon keep his ward confined here, cut off from the rest of the world?

  Just stay out of my way. Both you and the boy.

  Annabelle found that callous statement more disturbing than ever. Her fingers itched to tear down the schedule and toss it into the nearest rubbish bin. But perhaps it was too soon to make judgments. Better she should observe for a few days before rushing headlong into changes.

  Nicholas had a tutor, and how she would fit into the daily program remained unclear. Perhaps she could discern his academic progress by examining his textbooks.

  Heading across the schoolroom, she glanced down the corridor and noticed a faint glimmer underneath the boy’s door. Was he still awake? Or had a lamp been left burning because he was afraid of the dark?

  Annabelle had to know. Leaving her candle on a table, she walked quietly down the passageway. His door stood slightly ajar. She knocked softly, and when there was no response, she peeked inside to find a large, well-appointed bedchamber.

  The light came from a wood fire burning low on the grate. A pair of wing chairs and a table created a cozy arrangement by the hearth. Her gaze swept over the shadowy lumps of furniture to the four-poster bed with its rich blue-and-gold hangings. The brocaded coverlet revealed the outline of a small form.

  The duke must be asleep.

  Annabelle told herself to leave. She had no business here when she’d been warned by the housekeeper not to disturb Nicholas. Yet she found herself tiptoeing to the bed. Surely it could do no harm to have a look at him. She wouldn’t wake him, of course; he might panic at seeing a stranger in his bedchamber. But after traveling halfway across England, she craved to put a face with his name.

  On the bedside table sat a framed miniature of a distinguished-looking young man in ceremonial robes. Beside him stood a beautiful blond lady. They must be the boy’s parents, Annabelle realized with a pang. How tragic to think that he had lost them. Surely they had showered him with the love denied to him now by his coldhearted uncle.

  Bending over the bed, she saw that Nicholas had burrowed deeply beneath the quilts. Could he breathe under there? Afraid he might grow uncomfortable during the night, she carefully drew back the quilt.

  A grouping of feather pillows lay beneath the blankets. The bed was empty.

  Sucking in a breath, Annabelle straightened up at once. Her heart thumped in shock. Where was the duke? Had he wandered off in his sleep? Should she raise an alarm?

  How horrible if he came to harm on her very first night here …

  No sooner had she taken two steps toward the door when a slight movement by the fireplace caught her attention. Half-hidden by one of the wing chairs, a small figure huddled on the rug. A pair of eyes peered out from between the furniture.

  Nicholas.

  Relief made her sway on her feet. From his furtive manner, he clearly hoped to remain unseen.

  The poor lad must be wondering who she was. And no doubt he wished to avoid being punished for sneaking out of bed.

  Annabelle cast about for a way to alleviate his concerns. Tapping a finger on her chin, she said aloud, “Dear me, I wonder what could have happened to His Grace. I am to be his new governess, and I was very much looking forward to meeting him.”

  Nicholas remained very still.

  “Whatever am I to do now?” she went on, pacing in a show of worry. “His Grace is supposed to be in his bed at this hour. If he’s gone missing, I shall be obliged to inform Lord Simon. That is certainly not something I wish to do. Indeed, if it could be avoided, I would never cause trouble for His Grace over such a small matter.”

  No response.

  She heaved a loud sigh. “Oh, well, there is naught to be done here. I must make haste to find his uncle at once…”

  As she started toward the door, something rustled by the fire. A boy with rumpled flaxen hair popped up to stare at her over the arm of the chair. His voice low and urgent, he said, “Please … you mustn’t…”

  A voluminous nightshirt swallowed his slight form. He had delicate features reminiscent of the woman in the miniature. The anxiety on his pale face reached out to Annabelle.

  She feigned surprise by placing her hand on her cheek. “My word, you gave me quite a fright! I didn’t see you over there. Are you perchance Nicholas, the Duke of Kevern?”

  A tiny bob of his head was her only answer. Both Lady Milford and Lord Simon had mentioned the duke’s shy nature. Who could blame him for being timid when he’d lost his parents and had been left to the care of servants? When his own uncle viewed him as a burden?

  Annabelle curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. I am Miss Annabelle Quinn, lately of Yorkshire.”

  He made a credible half bow from the waist. Someone had taught him manners. Regarding her with wary green eyes, he whispered, “Are you … are you truly my governess?”

  “Indeed I am. And may I add, I’ve traveled quite a long distance to meet you. I do hope you can forgive me for being too impatient to wait until morning.”

  He nodded slowly. Just then, she noticed that he was clutching something in his hand.

  Curious, she took a few steps closer, careful not to alarm him. She spied a small army of toy soldiers arranged on the rug before the fire. The sight touched her heart. Was this the only time he had to play? In secret, after he’d been put to bed?

  It would seem so. It also seemed likely the canny little rascal had arranged the pillows in his bed so that it would appear as though he were asleep to anyone who came to check on him.

  Annabelle knelt down, as much to examine the battlefield as to place herself on his level. The array of figurines were a sight to behold. He had made two armies facing each other, one of soldiers and the other of cavalry. The uniforms appeared somewhat old-fashioned, and the paint was chipped on a few as if they’d enjoyed frequent use.

  “What a fearsome battle. May I take a look at one?”

  Nicholas lifted his small shoulders in a shrug.

  Annabelle decided to take that as an assent. Careful not to disturb the formation, she picked up a red-coated soldier holding a musket. Although the piece fit perfectly into the palm of her hand, it was surprisingly heavy. She glanced up to see that Nicholas held a miniature cavalryman on horseback. Keeping a furtive eye on her, he ran his fingertip over the figurine as if it were precious to him.

  “Is that one special?” she asked.

  Another shrug. His reluctance to speak could not be more clear.

  Poor lad, she couldn’t blame him for being wa
ry. No one had warned him that a new governess was to arrive. He had no way of knowing if she’d tattle on him or snatch his toys away.

  Annabelle ached for him to realize that he was safe with her. Perhaps the toy soldiers gave her a chance to do so.

  “Have you had these for a long time?” she asked gently.

  He hung his head, rather guiltily, she thought.

  “I shan’t scold you for being out of bed, at least not this once.” She placed her hand over her heart. “On my honor, I do solemnly swear that anything you confess to me will not go beyond these four walls.”

  Nicholas stared down at his small bare toes. After a moment he glanced up and whispered, “I found them.”

  “Found them where?”

  He pointed toward a chest in the corner. “In there.”

  “Then they are yours.”

  His chin tilted down, he shook his head. “They belonged to Papa … and Uncle Simon. I’m not to touch them without permission.”

  Annabelle couldn’t imagine why Nicholas should be denied the use of his father’s old toys. Everything in the castle belonged to him by birthright. Except, of course, that as the boy’s guardian, Lord Simon held the reins of power. “Then we must obtain your uncle’s consent.”

  His face going pale, Nicholas lifted his chin to gaze beseechingly at her. “Please don’t tell … he’ll be angry.”

  Annabelle’s heart squeezed painfully. How appalling that he should be terrified to ask his uncle a simple question. The man must have treated Nicholas harshly to have inspired such fear in him.

  A hearty dislike for Lord Simon solidified in her. Family members should love each other, especially when one was a lonely orphaned boy in desperate need of affection.

  A sound out in the corridor caught her attention. Rising to her feet, she placed a finger over her lips to warn Nicholas to be quiet. He watched, wide-eyed, as she went to the door to peek out.

  In the schoolroom, a plump woman set down a tray on the desk and then disappeared into the corridor that led to Annabelle’s bedchamber. Elowen was back and she’d gone to lay the fire.