An Unlikely Governess

by Karen Ranney

  “It’s Hannibal,” Robert said, leaning over and taking back the soldiers while giving Devlen an admonishing look. “The general who marched his elephants across the Alps.”

  Devlen leaned back on his hand and wondered if his cousin knew there were not many occasions when he crawled around on the floor. For that effort alone, he should be applauded. His memory furnished him with one unique episode with a former mistress, but it wouldn’t do to dwell on that particular escapade. His knees had been chafed for a week.

  Robert was intent upon reenacting some battle far back in history. Devlen decided not to ask more about Hannibal, in case it was a subject on which Robert was voluble. A sentence or two and he would be out of his element.

  Devlen was quite able to converse on a variety of subjects, having spent many years in London as well as on the Continent. He’d traveled to America for one blissful summer, but he remembered more about the woman who’d accompanied him on that trip than he did the scenery of Washington and New York. His journeys through the Orient had been the most fascinating of all his travels, and he vowed he’d return one day. He’d become somewhat familiar with the Russians, although he doubted he’d ever return to that country. Too damn cold for his taste.

  Yet, none of his experiences provided him with fodder for a conversation with his cousin. Still, he’d always liked the child, and Robert must have sensed his genuine affection, because he’d gravitated to Devlen ever since his parents had died.

  The responsibility of being the only adult in the child’s family who could tolerate him was heavy indeed. But there was something about Robert, as irritating as he could sometimes be, that summoned forth Devlen’s compassion. Perhaps it was because Robert had suddenly been made an orphan. One moment he was the cherished son of a man older than his father and the next he was told his mummy and daddy had been killed in a carriage accident.

  The intervening months had not been easy ones.

  First, his home had suddenly been overtaken by an entourage. His uncle, now guardian, had arrived with his wife, her maid, and countless other servants, their sole purpose on earth to look after one very lonely child.

  He’d been given a series of tutors, each selected by his uncle and each more disagreeable than the last. Robert, however, had defeated them to a man with the sheer brilliant tactic of being such a monstrous child they’d quit out of desperation.

  Did his young cousin realize he was the greatest pawn in this invisible war? The enemy was not the French, or the English of a century earlier, but his own uncle.

  Things were not well at Castle Crannoch or with Robert. Robert, however, was not talking. For the first time, his cousin wasn’t sharing his misery, and his reticence was disturbing.

  Yet, it wasn’t Robert’s fault he was suddenly and not unexpectedly irritated. Any more than it was his fault Cameron Gordon intensely disliked him.

  “How’s your ankle?” he asked, glancing at the wrapping visible below Robert’s trousers. “You took a nasty fall down the stairs.”

  A fall that might well have killed an adult.

  Robert nodded.

  “You must be more careful.”

  Once again Robert glanced over at him. Those young eyes suddenly looked too old. In that moment Devlen wondered what, exactly, the child knew. Or suspected.

  “You’re going to get a governess tomorrow.”

  “I don’t need a governess.”

  “To that I would probably agree. Nevertheless, Miss Sinclair is to begin tomorrow. Try to treat her nicely. No itchweed in her bed.”

  Robert looked intrigued by the thought, so much so Devlen wished he hadn’t given the boy the idea. But Robert had managed to get rid of three tutors on his own; he didn’t need Devlen’s suggestions.

  “Perhaps you can see your way clear to being polite to her. At least talk to her from time to time. I understand Miss Sinclair is an orphan as well.”

  Robert’s face suddenly closed; there was no other word for it. The light in his eyes went out as if there were no intelligence behind them, as if nothing lived behind the face of Robert Gordon, twelfth Duke of Brechin. Devlen had never seen anyone vanish so quickly, and the effect was so complete it stirred the hairs on the back of his neck.

  They could not travel fast in the farm wagon, but it was just as well. Beatrice had time enough to savor the view of the cottage she’d always known as home.

  Although most of her memories were of Kilbridden Village, she’d come from somewhere else, a place near the border of Scotland and England. Her parents laughed about it sometimes, about her father acting as a reiver and her mother being the prize he’d stolen. But those were comments not for her ears. Even as a child Beatrice had known that.

  Her parents had both come from large families, she’d been told. Yet in all these years, she’d never met any relatives. No aunts or uncles had come to Scotland to visit them, nor had she ever witnessed any correspondence.

  There was an air of mystery about her parents. Once, when Beatrice had asked her mother why she never talked about the past, the older woman looked as if she might cry.

  “There are some memories that shouldn’t be recalled,” she said, and wouldn’t comment further.

  When her parents had died, Beatrice had carefully searched through their belongings. She’d found nothing. No links with the past, no letters or documents that might lead to missing relatives.

  Her father was an educated man, always talking about books and his lessons. He was a poor farmer, inept in those necessary tasks as if such menial work was unknown to him. The crops were often scraggly, and the chickens sickened and died more often than not. He was happiest when he was deep in his study of his few books, or when he called out to her mother and the two of them discussed a topic of interest.

  Even with their poverty, life was pleasant for the three of them. The only time she could remember sorrow in the small cottage was when her mother gave birth to a baby boy who lived only an hour. She’d seen her father weep then as he sat beside her mother’s bed. That was the first and only time she’d ever seen him cry; but as the years passed, she realized that of the two of them, her mother was the stronger person.

  When she was fourteen, the village elders came to her father and offered him the newly created position as schoolmaster. All pretense of farming was forgotten, and from that day forward the family fortunes were different. There were never times in which money was plentiful, but they were less likely to starve. Her mother kept the chickens, and maintained a small garden, and her father left for the school each morning bearing a smile that was half anticipation, and half excitement.

  Now the cottage looked forlorn and empty. Should she board up the windows, close the shutters? It would be some time before she returned here, if she could bear to return at all.

  The cottage was far enough from the village that she had no neighbors. She’d often felt isolated during the past year. Perhaps that had been a good thing after all. No one had known of her precarious state, that she’d completely run out of money or objects to sell a month ago.

  “Is it a difficult thing, miss?”

  She glanced at Gaston, realizing the wagon had stopped, and Gaston was standing in the road.

  “Is what difficult?”

  “Leaving your home?”

  She nodded.

  How strange she’d given no thought to the care of the cottage while she’d be living at Castle Crannoch. Who would check the thatch to make sure it was repaired in the spring? Who would chip away the ice from the door and oil the latch and hinges? Who would guard her father’s books and her parents’ possessions, those she could not bear to sell in the last month?

  She should tell Gaston she could not leave. A moment later, she chastised herself. Why would she stay? There was nothing here but the past, and she needed to put it aside, both memories of the happiness and laughter and the darker recollections of loss and grief.

  “Miss?”

  She came back to the present and left
the wagon, walking down the path and deliberately blocking out memories. But they came flooding back despite her will. Her father had laid the path, and the task had taken him a full two months—six weeks for the planning of it and only two weeks to do the work. She and her mother had helped, hauling in the stones from the back of the property, laying them down exactly where he’d planned. She remembered he’d been so pleased at the finished result while she and her mother had merely been grateful the chore was done.

  Her parents were so complete, so happy to be together, that she wasn’t unduly surprised Fate had taken them within days of each other. Now they lay buried together, in the churchyard facing east. “In sure and certain hope of the Resurrection,” the minister had said. “With a smile in their hearts and their souls enlivened with peace.”

  That was all very well and good for her parents, but what about her?

  An entirely selfish thought, and she recognized it as such. However, she didn’t chastise herself as much as she had in the beginning when grief was such a raw wound she would sit alone in the cottage staring out at the day and wondering how she was ever to live through the pain.

  She had learned, in the last year, that she could live through anything, including the loss of her parents and her friends. She could endure loneliness and heartache, grief, pain, and even despair. But her body required food, water, and warmth.

  For that, she’d agreed to Cameron Gordon’s offer.

  She entered the cottage, gathering up her belongings: a small brush, her mother’s silver-backed mirror, her father’s book of Aesop’s Fables, her remaining two dresses, a spare set of stays, and two shifts. She was wearing everything else she owned. Within five minutes, she was done.

  Beatrice left the cottage and closed the door behind her, taking care the latch caught and the wind couldn’t blow it open as it had a habit of doing.

  She turned and smiled resolutely. “I’m ready, Gaston.”

  He reached out to take the valise from her. “Are you certain, mademoiselle?” She half expected him to heft the bag in his hand as if measuring its contents.

  “I’m certain,” she said. The belongings were hardly worth the effort of the journey.

  Should she contact her parents’ friends, let them know where she would be? Just in case something happened, and any of them needed to reach her.

  Who should she contact? Mrs. Fernleigh? A widow of indeterminate age, Mrs. Fernleigh had been old when Beatrice was a child. In the last few years, Mrs. Fernleigh had been increasingly forgetful, referring to people who were no longer alive as if she’d just spoken with them. The cholera epidemic had been difficult on her. She was often confused. Perhaps not Mrs. Fernleigh.

  Mr. Brown? He’d lost his wife and son in the epidemic and often spent his days more intent on a tankard than the world around him.

  Other than Jeremy, all her friends had perished in the epidemic. There was no one to tell, in the end.

  With one last, lingering glance, she left the home she’d always known, walking down the path toward the carriage to, if not a better life, then one filled with less sorrow.

  Chapter 7

  Rowena Gordon surveyed herself in the mirror with a critical eye, not only to her appearance but her demeanor. She must show exactly the right appearance to the world. Her family was quick to judge, and she didn’t want an errant tongue commenting she looked tired, or her lace was frayed, or there was a glint of disappointment in her eyes.

  There must be nothing about her comportment to give anyone a reason to comment. If someone must say something, let him say the weather in Scotland agreed with her, her complexion had never looked clearer, the years had not seemed to touch her. Above all, dear God, do not let one of them whisper a word of pity or compassion about her husband.

  Dear Cameron, what a shame for such a vital man to be trapped in a chair. How do you cope, my dearest Rowena?

  Please, not that.

  She was wearing red today, a daring color, a shocking one. Her jacket was cropped above the waist and trimmed in fur, as was the hem of her ankle-length skirt. There were little pompoms on her boots as well as on her hat. Another new outfit. Her relatives had not hesitated to comment on her spending habits, as if they envied her wealth. As if money could ever make up for the constant sorrow of her life.

  She picked up the reticule and turned to address her maid.

  “Well, Mary, will I do?” she asked.

  Of all the people in the world, Mary was privy to her secrets more than anyone else.

  Mary had sat beside her during those terrible hours when she hadn’t known if Cameron would live or die. Mary had brought her countless cups of chocolate when she couldn’t sleep. Mary had surreptitiously handed her a new handkerchief when she left her husband’s room every morning. And Mary was the one who hung about like a wraith, an almost invisible creature simply waiting for the opportunity to be of service.

  Mary nodded and smiled in response. “You look beautiful, madam.”

  “Thank you, Mary. If I do, it’s no small thanks to your ministrations.”

  Mary’s cheeks turned a becoming rose as she hurried to get the door.

  “Will you be ready to leave by lunchtime?” Rowena asked as she left the room.

  “Oh yes, madam. My bags are packed.” She looked as if she’d like to say something, but kept silent.

  “Will you not be anxious to see your brother again?” Thomas was one of Cameron’s drivers, a most trusted employee.

  “Indeed I will, madam. It’s just that London is so very exciting a place.”

  “It is all that and more, Mary. But we must return to Castle Crannoch.”

  Mary nodded. “Yes, madam.”

  Did Mary know how desperately Rowena had wanted to leave Scotland? The despair of her life had become too much to bear. Mary had no choice but to accompany her. But these past two months in London had not eased her life one whit. Instead, she’d missed Cameron with every passing day.

  Perhaps coming to London had been a good thing after all, because it had borne home to her the truth. She couldn’t escape no matter where she was. She adored her husband, without his legs or not.

  These past months, he’d withdrawn from her completely. He no longer even touched her in passing or friendship. She used to sit beside his chair and press the back of his hand against her cheek, remembering so many other times when such a gesture would lead to passion between them.

  Now, however, there was not even that.

  He would slowly withdraw his hand and look at her impassively, almost as if he didn’t quite know her. Or didn’t wish to.

  Sometimes, she wondered what he would do if she told him just how lonely she was. Would he look right through her? Or would he allow her back into his bed? There were things they couldn’t say to each other, even though they should and needed to be said.

  She left her room, descending the steps holding her head high and feeling for the treads with her feet below her full skirts. Her mouth was arranged in a fixed smile and her face in a pleasant expression. She was on a stage of sorts, and the final curtain was about to rise.

  Her family had changed, or perhaps she’d just now realized how sharp and aggressive they were in their curiosity. They didn’t care that each one of their questions were like darts thrown at her exposed skin. Everywhere they landed they caused a wound.

  As she entered the drawing room and faced her five cousins, two aunts, and her mother, Rowena realized she’d been an absolute fool. She’d come to London for comfort and been greeted by a hungry pack of she-wolves.

  Not one of these females had once embraced her, or expressed their sorrow for her life’s predicament. Instead, they had been jealous of Cameron’s wealth and her stepson’s notoriety.

  She took a deep breath and greeted them.

  The journey back to Castle Crannoch was delayed due to the repairs to the coach. Beatrice sat back against the cushions and folded her hands on her lap and made a pretense of looking out the wind
ow. She had planned to be back at the castle before the afternoon was well advanced. When they finally got on their way, it was gloaming. The saddest time of day, as if nature itself wept to see the coming of night.

  She hated the darkness, the total blackness of it, the absence of light. Night reminded her too closely of death. She was a person who craved mornings, who sought the dawn. The first tentative touch of sunlight against a blackened sky brought a feeling of peace, of incipient joy.

  Yet here she was, approaching Castle Crannoch once more with night looming on the horizon.

  Was this the hand of God demonstrating that perhaps she should not feel such relief upon leaving her village? Had she been foolish to accept the post of governess?

  They began the long arduous journey up the winding mountain to Castle Crannoch. Once again the trip was done in full darkness, the moon coming out from behind a bank of clouds to witness the ascent.

  Beatrice tried to concentrate on anything but the knowledge of how steep the drop was to her right. Were the horses as afraid as she? Or were they simply immune to the danger?

  “Tell me about Robert,” she said, directing her attention back to Gaston, who’d remained silent and watchful for the last quarter hour. Instead of sitting with the driver, he rode with her inside the carriage.

  “What would you like to know about him?” For the first time, she sensed his approval and felt ashamed she’d not asked about the child earlier.

  “What are his favorite subjects to study? His favorite foods? That sort of thing.”

  “I think it best if you learn about His Grace on your own, Miss Sinclair. I will say this about the child, however. He loved his parents dearly and suffers for their loss even now.”

  “That is one thing we have in common, Gaston.”