by Olivia Drake
Annabelle returned to Nicholas. “The maid has brought my dinner. I’ll tell her that I’ve checked on you already, so there’s no need for her to disturb you.”
The boy said nothing. He stood clutching his tiny cavalry horse, looking so withdrawn and guarded that she yearned to draw him close in a hug. But given his reserve, it was too soon for that.
“I’ll come back in half an hour,” she said. “You may play for a bit longer, Your Grace, but I’ll expect you to pick up your army and be in bed when I return. I hope I can count on you to do so.”
Nicholas continued to regard her warily. He made no rush to return to his game, as he would have if he trusted her. Like a cautious creature of the forest, he remained unmoving as she walked out of the bedchamber.
Chapter 6
The following morning, Annabelle started her first day as governess by committing a serious blunder. She overslept.
Her eyelids fluttered open to the bright sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtains. For an instant, she didn’t recognize her surroundings: the stone walls, the single high window, the porcelain bowl on a washstand across from her narrow cot.
Then she sat up straight as the events of the previous day washed over her. Lord Simon Westbury had half dragged her out of the violent rainstorm and into Castle Kevern. His rude, hostile treatment of her had come as a shock. It had taken considerable persuasion to convince him to hire her, albeit temporarily. Today she needed to give him no reason to regret his decision.
How late was it?
Throwing off the covers, Annabelle hopped out of bed. The stone floor chilled her bare feet. Heedless, she raced to the door, cracked it open, and peered out. A man’s muffled tone came from the schoolroom. It was not a voice she recognized.
Nicholas’s tutor must be here already.
Aghast at her own tardiness, she hurried through her ablutions. Since her trunk hadn’t been delivered yet, she’d had to sleep in a borrowed shift. Her soaked garments had been borne away by a maid. Annabelle had meant to arise at dawn and fetch them back, for surely they were dry by now. Instead, she’d have to don the same ill-fitting dress she’d worn the previous afternoon.
Drat it all! Back at the academy, she’d always been awakened by the bonging of the casement clock outside her tiny chamber. But here, the thick stone walls had blocked out all household noise. The only sound was the lulling whisper of the sea against the rocky shore.
Heaven help her, she simply must appear the capable, efficient governess. If Lord Simon learned of her tardiness, she might very well be dismissed on the spot.
Bending down, she peered into the little mirror over the washstand while hastily pinning her hair. Then she jammed a white spinster’s cap over the slapdash bun. There was no time for breakfast. Longing for a hot cup of tea and a piece of toast, she hurried down the gloomy corridor to the schoolroom.
In the doorway, she came to an abrupt halt.
Nicholas sat at a pint-sized table directly in front of the teacher’s desk. Beside him towered a middle-aged man clad in the dark robes of a professor. The tutor’s back was turned, showing the wisps of graying brown hair that fringed his balding pate. In the next instant, she spied the ruler he lifted high in the air.
“Your uncle will hear about this!” The man brought the stick down and whacked the boy’s knuckles.
It happened so swiftly she had no time to react.
Nicholas cowered in his chair. A small whimper escaped his pinched lips.
As the tutor raised the ruler again, Annabelle sprang forward. She rushed across the schoolroom and seized hold of his forearm. With her other hand, she knocked the wooden stick out of his fingers. It went clattering to the floor and slid underneath the desk.
The man staggered sideways, then pivoted to face her. Anger twisted his narrow, foxlike features. “Wha—” he sputtered. “Who are you? How dare you interfere!”
“I’m Miss Annabelle Quinn, His Grace’s new governess. And you will not strike him like that ever again.”
He glowered, his brown eyes raking her up and down. “Governess? Lord Simon never informed me there was a new member of the staff.”
She should have guessed, Annabelle thought. Lord Simon had exhibited little interest in the education of his nephew. Why would he consider the hiring of a governess to be important enough to mention? The answer was, he wouldn’t.
She glanced down at Nicholas who sat very still. His small shoulders were hunched, his head lowered, as if he hoped to shrink from sight. Using a corner of his sleeve, he furtively rubbed at the slate in his lap. A fierce sense of protectiveness gripped her. She would not allow him to be mistreated, not by this man and not by Lord Simon, either.
“His lordship engaged my services only yesterday,” she told the tutor. “Henceforth, I shall be overseeing His Grace’s studies.”
“I beg your pardon? If Lord Simon was displeased with my lessons, he would have told me so. Why, he knows I’m an exemplary tutor.”
You’re a bully, that’s what.
Annabelle swallowed the retort. Her tenuous position here required a conciliatory manner, no matter how much she detested this man. Anyway, it wouldn’t do to fling insults in front of Nicholas.
“I’m here to ensure that His Grace receives a well-rounded education,” she said. “I’m also to watch out for his safety in any manner necessary. Now tell me, what has he done to merit such a harsh reprimand from you?”
“He was scribbling nonsense instead of heeding my history lecture.” The tutor snatched up the slate from the boy’s lap and thrust it at her. “There! See how well he listens?”
She found herself gazing down at the chalk sketch of a horse. Nicholas had tried to rub it away, but enough remained for her to see that he had an uncommon flair for drawing. The fine rendering brought to mind the miniature cavalryman that he’d clutched the previous evening. When she’d returned to his bedchamber after eating dinner, the army of toy soldiers had been cleared away and he lay in bed, fast asleep—or at least pretending to be. She’d been pleased that he’d obeyed her instructions without a fuss.
Now, however, it seemed he’d acted out of fear of punishment. She suspected that he seldom—if ever—received kindness from this man or from Lord Simon. Why would Nicholas expect anything better from her? For all he knew, she’d report his every transgression to that despicable uncle of his.
“What I see is that His Grace has a wonderful artistic talent.” She handed the slate back to Nicholas. “Such a gift should be encouraged rather than punished. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me your name.”
“The Reverend Percival Bunting.” The tutor spoke with a note of grating superiority. “I am vicar of St. Geren’s Church in the village.”
Vicar? Startled, Annabelle noticed for the first time the stiff white collar that rimmed the neckline of his robe. She would never have taken him for a cleric. The only one she’d ever known in Yorkshire had been a plump, happy fellow who’d loved children—the exact opposite of this curmudgeon.
“Is His Grace’s tutor ill, then?” she asked in confusion. “Are you filling in for him?”
“Quite the contrary. I am in sole charge of educating His Grace.” His mouth twisted in a sour line. “Or at least I was given to believe that I was.”
“But what of your duties in the parish? Visiting the sick, writing sermons, conducting services…”
“The assistant curate is capable of handling day-to-day matters in my absence. Everything else can be dealt with upon my return to the vicarage each evening.”
Annabelle seized upon the chance to prove her usefulness. “Then my presence here will allow you more time to attend to those tasks.”
He drew himself up with self-importance. “Nothing can be more imperative than training the Duke of Kevern to take his righteous place as a peer of the realm. You cannot possibly surpass my qualifications for the role. After all, I was once a lecturer at Oxford.”
Oxford! The news dismayed An
nabelle. She’d expected a tutor of modest background, someone easily replaceable. But Mr. Bunting had a lofty résumé—which made her own situation all the more shaky.
As if privy to her thoughts, he stepped closer, a smirk on his narrow face. “And what, pray tell, are your credentials?”
“I taught at a fine academy in Yorkshire,” she said glibly. “I’m well versed in all subjects from mathematics to science to literature. Lord Simon would never have hired me otherwise.”
Annabelle held his gaze, refusing to look away. She buried any qualms at embellishing the truth. If ever Mr. Bunting found out she’d merely taught etiquette at a school for girls, he’d whine to Lord Simon and she’d be tossed out at once.
Then Nicholas would be left without an advocate. He would be subject to the cruel whims of this man.
“Yorkshire,” Mr. Bunting muttered with a shake of his head. “What is there in such a provincial place but sheep and barren moors?”
“It is no more provincial than Cornwall,” Annabelle countered. She bent down to pick up the ruler from beneath the desk. “Now I’m sure you’ll agree there’s no point to wasting any more valuable classroom time.” Without seeking his permission, she seated herself on a nearby chair and kept the ruler in her lap.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said huffily.
“I intend to observe your lessons. It will be very useful for me to know the progress of His Grace in his studies.”
The vicar glowered for a moment as if debating the wisdom of trying to oust her from the schoolroom. Then in a swirl of black robes he stalked to the desk. “Do as you please,” he muttered. “But this is an affront, and I fully intend to take up the matter with Lord Simon.”
Annabelle strove for a serene expression. Now was not the time for another rejoinder. He would only use it as ammunition when he lodged his complaint against her. And he would complain, she had no doubt about that. She could only hope to deprive him of any further offenses to report.
Mr. Bunting cleared his throat. He launched into a monologue about the British colonies that included reciting lists of names and dates from a textbook that lay open on the desk. Within minutes, Annabelle was struck by the mind-numbing quality of his presentation. The vicar rattled on about obscure political and historical facts that could be of little interest to a boy of eight.
Indeed, Nicholas appeared to be gazing out the bank of windows behind the vicar, where the sky had been washed clean of yesterday’s rainclouds and gulls soared against a palette of blue. Annabelle struggled to keep her own mind focused on the lecture. As the morning progressed, she found herself growing increasingly distressed.
Mr. Bunting was clearly unsuited to teaching a young child. He failed miserably at engaging the duke’s attention. His dull delivery would have bored even a classroom of university students. What had Lord Simon been thinking to hire such a stuffy, self-important man?
She pursed her lips. Lord Simon was indifferent to his nephew’s well-being, that’s what. To him, Nicholas was merely an annoyance to be kept out of sight in the nursery.
Just stay out of my way. Both you and the boy.
No wonder Lady Milford believed Nicholas desperately needed a governess. Her ladyship wished to shelter the young duke from both Lord Simon and Mr. Bunting. That must have been why she’d rejected the other teachers at the academy; she’d been searching for someone who could commiserate with the orphaned little boy. Someone who had once been lonely and vulnerable herself. Someone who knew exactly how he felt.
Someone willing to fight his battles for him.
Tightening her fingers around the ruler in her lap, Annabelle prayed she wouldn’t disappoint her ladyship. It would require tact and diplomacy to secure her position here at the castle. She’d have to keep a firm rein on her temper. Already, she had caused trouble, and the vicar would not take kindly to any more interference. If she was sacked, then Nicholas would be left on his own again.
His Grace of Kevern sat like a statue with his hands folded in his lap. Poor lad, he didn’t trust anyone, and who could blame him? He had been betrayed by all the adults in his life: inadvertently by his parents when they had died, by Lord Simon, who barely acknowledged his presence, and by Mr. Bunting, who had a taste for harsh discipline.
But now Nicholas had her as his advocate.
The thought imbued Annabelle with strength. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she’d found her true calling. It was a sense of purpose that she’d never felt while teaching the pampered girls at Mrs. Baxter’s Academy.
The opportunity must not be allowed to slip away. She had a fortnight to convince Lord Simon to keep her on staff. A fortnight in which to prove herself indispensible. A fortnight in which to find a way to eject Mr. Bunting from the castle once and for all.
* * *
After tending to an errand in the village, Simon was riding back to Castle Kevern when he spied a familiar dogcart trundling toward him on the muddy road. The driver lifted his hand and waved imperiously.
Simon cursed under his breath. So much for his hope to return home without further delay. His already belated midday meal would have to wait even longer. He was also testy from a cramp in his thigh from an old war wound.
He’d been in the saddle since dawn, traversing the estate and assessing the damage done by the storm. Fields of ripening corn and barley had been flattened. A crofter’s roof had caved in from the heavy rain and a thatching crew had to be arranged. An entire flock of sheep had escaped through a breached fence and had to be shepherded back onto Kevern land.
Now he was faced with mollifying a peevish employee.
Beneath a wide-brimmed black hat, Percival Bunting’s face bore a pinched expression. That came as no surprise. This morning, the vicar would have met the inimitable Miss Annabelle Quinn.
Simon drew his mount to a halt beside the dogcart and pony. His gray gelding danced back and forth, requiring a firm hand on the reins. “Vicar,” he said with a cool nod. “A bit early for you to have left the schoolroom.”
“Through no fault of my own, I assure you.” Bunting aimed an indignant look up from the low, two-wheeled vehicle. “It is most providential to have encountered you, my lord. We must have a word at once, if you’ll be so kind as to attend me to the vicarage.”
“I’m busy today. Speak your mind here and be done with it.”
Bunting glanced back and forth at the surrounding forest as if he expected an army of eavesdroppers to pop out from behind the tree trunks. “It is regarding Miss Annabelle Quinn,” he said, pronouncing her name as if it were a concoction of vinegar and pepper. “Imagine my astonishment when she marched into the schoolroom this morning. I had no notion the woman had even been hired.”
“Do forgive the oversight,” Simon said unrepentantly. “I presume you took the matter in stride.”
“Naturally! I pride myself on being a most accommodating man. However, I confess to being unable to fathom your purpose in adding her to the staff. If you are displeased with my services, then pray tell me how I might improve myself.”
You could try not being a pompous ass. “Don’t make too much of it. I’m merely doing what’s best for my nephew. Miss Quinn can supervise his studies and provide him with any mothering he might need.”
“Mothering? I thought we’d agreed His Grace is too old for a governess.”
“Quite so. But Lady Milford believes otherwise and I’ve decided to defer to her better judgment.”
Simon was still annoyed that Clarissa had acted without his express permission. Months ago, she’d striven to convince him that Nicholas needed someone to replace his mother. Simon had bluntly pointed out the folly in her reasoning. When had the boy ever known love and affection from Diana? It wasn’t as if he had anything to miss. The late Duchess of Kevern had been too dedicated to her own frivolities to pay heed to her only child.
A pity he himself had been blind to Diana’s self-seeking nature when they’d first met all those years a
go. He’d found out the hard way, when she’d scorned his marriage proposal and shifted her sights to George and the title.
Bunting continued to whine. “My lord, pray do not think it unseemly of me to question your decisions. However, I must point out that having a woman in the schoolroom is a disruptive influence. She will distract His Grace from his studies.”
“What exactly has she done?”
“For one, she attempted to prevent me from rebuking His Grace for daydreaming. As you know, the boy must not be coddled if he is to be prepared for Eton next year. I cannot maintain discipline in the classroom so long as that female continues to interfere.”
Simon wanted nothing to do with their petty squabbles. “I expect you’ll find a way to compromise. Is that all?”
“Unfortunately not! The woman also had the temerity to inform me that she was canceling this afternoon’s classes so the duke could take her on a tour of the castle. She is wasting precious study time. You must speak to her on the matter at once!”
“I can’t imagine it’ll do him any harm to enjoy a half-holiday. In the meantime, you should take advantage of her help and find a way to divide the classroom duties.”
“I beg your pardon?” The vicar’s lips flattened together. “She cannot possibly be a suitable teacher. She lacks an Oxford education. How can we know she is even qualified in the slightest?”
“Lady Milford selected Miss Quinn. That is recommendation enough for me. Good day, Vicar.”
Simon urged his mount to a trot up the winding road to the castle. He hoped to God that would be the end of it. Continuing to referee quarrels between those two was not a prospect he relished. He expected his employees to perform their duties unobtrusively, just as the cavalrymen under his command had obeyed his orders without question.
Overseeing a large household and estate had never figured into Simon’s plan for his life. At this very moment, he should have been in Turkey or Greece or some other exotic locale, exploring ancient ruins in search of lost treasures. The previous autumn he’d been waiting to board a ship in Dover when the letter had arrived with the tragic news about George and Diana.
