An Unlikely Governess

by Karen Ranney

  Beatrice halted at the corner and wondered where she could go to hire a carriage. A simple enough question as it turned out. She inquired of a passerby, who pointed her in the direction of an inn. The innkeeper in turn directed her to a stable. The owner was not happy to rent his carriage for a one-way journey, so she ended up paying twice as much as it was worth.

  “I need to go to Kilbridden Village,” she said, giving him directions.

  “I know the place, but it’s an out-of-the-way hamlet, miss. Inverness might be more to your liking.”

  Robert had been silent beside her, his eyes wide. But it was an indication of how desperate their straits that he didn’t question her actions.

  “Return in an hour, and we’ll leave then.”

  “Now.”

  He stared at her and then spit on the ground. “I’ve not had my dinner.”

  “Your horses are rested, are they not? Have they been fed and watered? What else must you do?”

  “Are you fleeing for some purpose, miss? I’m not carrying a felon, am I?”

  “I’ve done nothing. But my son and I need to travel this afternoon.”

  “The roads might be bad, we might need to spend the night.”

  “I’ve the money to pay for lodging.”

  “Son is it? He doesn’t look like you.”

  “Mommy,” Robert said just at that moment, “I want a candy.”

  “Not now. Later.” She brushed his hair back and wondered at the speed at which they had both become accomplished liars.

  “Very well, get inside, and we’ll be off.” He added a few more moments of grumbling before he began to lead the horses to the front of the coach.

  She and Robert climbed inside, and in the silence he asked her the one question she dreaded.

  “Does Devlen want me dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She didn’t want Devlen to be involved. He couldn’t be. She couldn’t be that wrong about someone. He loved Robert; that was plain to see by anyone who viewed them together.

  And her? What did he feel about her?

  “I’d give it up if I could,” Robert said. She glanced down to find Robert crying. Large tears all the more touching for the fact they were silent. “I don’t want to be duke.”

  She wrapped him in the folds of her cloak. At the moment, she wanted to cry, too. She was so frightened, and she didn’t know what to do.

  Robert slid his hand into hers, and she was grateful for the comfort of it. Together, they sat as the driver made the carriage ready. She was grateful for the silence. There was nothing she could say to the child.

  She’d almost failed him.

  Chapter 29

  The journey home took them five hours, far longer than it would have taken if the driver had made an earnest attempt to hurry. Perhaps the roads were as bad as he complained. They were certainly icy, but neither snow-filled nor rutted. If he’d been paid by the distance instead of the hour, Beatrice was certain they could have reached Kilbridden Village in half the time.

  The cottage looked more than empty; it looked deserted and oddly sad, its thatched roof drooping beneath the night sky. The stone of the walls was from a quarry outside of the village and was the color of mud when it rained. In the spring they were saved from dullness by climbing ivy. But now it looked forlorn and humble, hardly a fit place to bring the Duke of Brechin.

  She left the carriage and paid the driver the rest of his money, before taking Robert’s hand and following the path to the front door.

  At the door she turned the latch and entered, feeling as if she’d been gone for years instead of just a few weeks. She halted on the threshold, feeling the memories flooding back.

  “Father, why did they build such funny-looking buildings?”

  “They’re called pyramids, Beatrice, and they’re for worshiping their gods.”

  “Beatrice Anne Sinclair. What are you doing? Come down from there this instant!” But in the next moment, her mother had dissolved into laughter to see both her husband and her daughter sitting in the high branches of a tree.

  “It’s a nest, Mother. Father thinks it’s an eagle.”

  “I shall not ever want to leave you. I promise and cross my heart, Father.”

  “Ah, but you will, Beatrice, and it will be a good thing. One’s children are only on loan, you see. They are gifts to be surrendered when the time comes.”

  Robert entered the cottage after her, and she wondered what he saw. A plain structure, with three windows and a door, a wooden floor sagging in spots. There was one place near the hearth where the floor squeaked.

  The kitchen table was square and old, two of the chairs matched, but the third did not. Her mother had made the curtains over the windows a few years ago, sitting by the fire and hemming the embroidered linen with careful stitches. A rug in front of the fireplace had been her resting place many evenings as she’d sat and listened to her parents talk or her father read aloud. Two overstuffed chairs sat in front of the fire with a small table between them. On it sat a lantern, and a store of candles. A door led to her parents’ room, and a staircase to her loft bed.

  All in all, a snug place to live. Nothing as grand as Castle Crannoch. But there was love here, the remnants of it clinging to the very air. At Castle Crannoch there were only dark shadows and suspicion.

  And in Edinburgh? She could not think of Edinburgh right now.

  After lighting the candles on the mantel, she knelt and prepared the fire. The room was chilled, and it would take several hours for the cottage to warm.

  She opened the door beside the fireplace, revealing her parents’ small but comfortable room, one she’d never occupied.

  “You’ll sleep here,” she told Robert, who was still looking around him with wide-eyed wonder. Ever since they’d left Edinburgh he’d been strangely quiet.

  There was nothing to eat in the larder or pantry, so she and Robert sat at the end of her parents’ bed and ate the rest of the sweets for dinner. When she tucked him into bed, his voice was subdued and more childlike than she’d ever heard.

  “Miss Sinclair? Could I have a candle lit, please?”

  “Of course,” she said, and bent down to brush his hair off his forehead. Before he could object, she kissed his cheek, feeling a curious and maternal protectiveness for the Duke of Brechin.

  “Sleep well, Robert.”

  “You’ll be close?”

  “Just in the loft,” she said, pointing to the ceiling. “A call will bring me running.”

  He nodded, evidently satisfied.

  She sat in the main room of the cottage, staring at the fire. She was cold, but it wasn’t the type of chill that could be warmed.

  Had she made a mistake in leaving Edinburgh without meeting with Devlen? Robert’s safety came first, and her wishes and wants far behind. Did she suspect him? That was the question, wasn’t it?

  She stood and walked around the room, touching the table where she and her parents had taken their meals, the mantel where her mother’s most prized possessions, a pair of statues of a shepherd and shepherdess, had once rested. She’d sold them after the epidemic, in order to afford the gravestones for her parents.

  She gripped the mantel and leaned forward, resting her head on her hands. The heat from the fire warmed her face.

  What would her father have thought of Devlen? He would have warned her to be wary of men with such a charming smile and way with women. A despoiler of innocents. A hunter of unicorns. Her mother would have adored him.

  She stood, and walked back to the chair her father had often occupied. The upholstery still bore the scent of his pipe.

  Dear God, how was she to endure this, too?

  The pain felt like a bandage being removed from a wound. Until now, until this exact moment, she’d thought everything was bearable. The discovery there was agony beneath the surface was shocking, stripping her breath from her.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and bent over, stifling the sharp, keeni
ng cry. She wanted to scream, but the sound traveled inward, careening through her mind and heart and forcing her to her knees. Beatrice slid to the floor, holding on to the arms of the chair to keep herself upright. She could barely breathe for the pain.

  Devlen.

  Her tears came grudgingly. She wept for her parents, for Robert’s loss, for the girl she’d been and was no more. She cried for the lost innocence not of her body but of her heart. She cried because she was betrayed, and in love, and the enormity of those twin emotions was too great a burden after all.

  Devlen couldn’t remember ever being as angry as he was right at this particular moment.

  He’d come home, only to find that Beatrice and Robert hadn’t returned from their outing. He’d paced in the library for a few hours, calming himself with the thought that they were no doubt enjoying the day. But by dusk he was summoning the servants, intent on retracing their path through the shops.

  He told himself it was annoyance that incited his search, but he couldn’t maintain that pretense for long, especially after visiting a shopkeeper along the route.

  “Aye, sir, it was a close call. I seen them both, the little boy and the woman. Why, the woman nearly got herself trampled trying to save the lad. Magnificent horses, though. Matched pairs, both of them. Rarely seen the like.”

  “But you haven’t seen them again?”

  “The horses? Oh, you mean the woman and the boy. After a close call like that? I’d go to the nearest tavern and down a whiskey.” The shopkeeper shrugged. “No, I never saw them after that.”

  The carriage was too slow, and he pounded on the top of the roof as a signal to the driver to pick up speed.

  The idea she’d almost been hurt had caused him no end of grief. His stomach still rolled thinking about it.

  Where in blazes was she?

  He’d sent Saunders to Castle Crannoch to ensure she wasn’t there. He didn’t believe she’d go back to the castle but he couldn’t afford to overlook any possibility. At dawn he’d visited Felicia, which proved to be both interesting and profoundly disturbing. Up until Mrs. Anderson told him he’d no idea the two women had ever met, let alone that Beatrice had returned to the house earlier. At least one question had been answered: Why hadn’t she come to him? She had, and found Felicia.

  “What did you say to her?” he asked.

  “Nothing of consequence. Has she gone away, Devlen?”

  Felicia began to smile, reaching up to place her hands on his chest. He had the strangest thought she was not unlike a cat. He didn’t particularly like cats.

  “Why, Devlen darling. Are you lonely?”

  “What did you say?”

  She pulled back, and then stepped away.

  “Are you this proprietary with your women, Devlen? If so, I should have been flattered during our time together.”

  She began to laugh, her wrapper falling open to reveal a plenteous bosom. He should know. She’d been his mistress for two years.

  “You’re in love with her. Oh, Devlen, that truly is a jest.”

  There was nothing he could say. To argue the point would be futile, especially since it occurred to him just at that moment, standing in his former mistress’s parlor, that she might be right.

  Beatrice couldn’t have simply left. She wouldn’t have, not after last night. Or this morning. She’d glanced at him before he’d left the room and he could swear there was something warm in her look, an affection, some type of fondness.

  But there was nothing to tie her to him. No reason for her to stay. Perhaps he should settle an obscene amount of money on her and bribe her to remain with him. Or hire her in some capacity. Perhaps he could lock her up in his house for a year or two. Keep her sated and well loved in his bed, so exhausted she couldn’t leave it. The idea of her needing to sleep to recuperate from their loving and then being seduced again was enough to deflect his anger for a few moments.

  She’d come from Kilbridden Village. Is it possible she might have returned there? Where else would she go? Beatrice was alone in the world, with few options. She had no money, nothing but the care of an occasionally obnoxious seven-year-old duke.

  The thought they were in danger was sudden, overwhelming, and nearly paralyzing.

  Beatrice ended up sleeping in her father’s chair, fully dressed. Her feet were swollen when she awoke and her shoes pinched, so she slipped them off and wished the fire hadn’t burned down to cinders. She eased up from the chair, feeling stiff. A price to pay for sleeping sitting up, her head braced against the chair’s side. She’d caught her father doing that only too often in the past.

  Last night they’d survived on sweets, but today she must arrange to buy some food. She’d become accustomed to eating three times a day in Edinburgh, and her stomach rumbled as if to remind her a meal was due.

  Later, she’d go to see Jeremy. He’d know the name of the magistrate, or some other official to whom she could tell her story. There must be someone impartial who could offer protection to Robert. If nothing else, his title should be able to garner some interest in his plight.

  There was enough money to tide them over for a week or two, especially if she were careful. And after that?

  That decision could wait until later.

  She pulled at the wrinkles of her skirt, slipped on her shoes, and went to the well in the back garden. The rusted pulley wheel squeaked as she hauled the bucket up from the bottom. Once the bucket was full she returned to the cottage, intent on her morning’s chores.

  Mary stood in the middle of the cottage’s main room. Rowena’s maid was dressed for the weather in a full cloak trimmed in fur. Both hands held a basket.

  “Miss Sinclair,” she said, inclining her head. “How tired you look.”

  “What are you doing here? For that matter, how did you know I was here?”

  “Devlen sent his man to Castle Crannoch looking for you. My brother and I wondered if you’d be here, instead. You do remember my brother, don’t you? Thomas? The driver? Or perhaps you don’t. People often ignore servants, as if they’re not there. We’re invisible.”

  She strode forward and put the basket down on the table. “I’ve brought you some pastries. I’m quite a skillful cook, you know.”

  “That was very kind of you.”

  “You look wary. I wonder why.”

  “I don’t know you. Why should you bring me pastries?”

  “Miss Sinclair?”

  Robert came out of her parents’ room, rubbing his eyes. He had clearly just awakened. Before she could go to his side, before she could urge him back into the room, Mary grabbed her.

  The knife in her hand bit deep into her throat.

  She gasped, half in shock, half in pain.

  “Take a muffin from the basket, Robert.” Mary moved the knife closer. Beatrice could feel the blade cut into her skin and the warmth of her blood trickle down her neck.

  Beatrice didn’t understand. Not until Mary moved closer and unfolded the napkin from the basket. There was an assortment of plump muffins resting there, each of them sprinkled with what looked like sugar.

  The birds. The bread.

  “Don’t,” she said, the only word she was able to get out before Mary tightened her grip.

  “If you don’t want your governess to die, Your Grace, you’ll do as I say. It won’t be bad. You’ll just get sleepy, that’s all. Then you’ll go and meet your father and mother. You miss them, don’t you, lad?”

  Robert reached out and picked up a muffin, his eyes wide and frightened. He was only seven, young enough to trust the words of an adult, even a madwoman. But Beatrice knew the moment he ate the biscuit, Mary would kill her.

  She made a noise in her throat, and the knife sliced deeper.

  Her neighbors were too far away to be of any assistance. No one else knew she’d returned to Kilbridden Village.

  “I’m the Duke of Brechin,” Robert suddenly said, putting the muffin down. “No one commands me to do anything.”

  Mar
y made a sound in her throat. “Do you want Miss Sinclair to die, you foolish child?”

  He picked up the muffin again and looked away, his attention momentarily distracted. Beatrice wanted to shout at him to move, to run away, anything but allow himself to be poisoned.

  What a hideous time to discover Robert felt some affection for her.

  A sound at the door made Mary turn, still holding the knife. Beatrice was bleeding freely now, and she didn’t know if the sudden dizziness she felt was from loss of blood or terror.

  A thousand cannons suddenly exploded. The small cottage absorbed the boom of thunder and a high tinny ringing Beatrice realized was only in her ears.

  Mary dropped to the floor, her mouth forming a perfect O as she fell. Instantly, a crimson flower formed on the floor around her. No, not a flower. Blood.

  Beatrice looked toward the door, eyes wide. Devlen stood there, holding one of his carriage pistols, a look of such ferocity on his face she almost flinched from it. As Robert ran to him, she sank down into her father’s chair, holding a hand to her throat.

  Chapter 30

  “Why?”

  Devlen glanced at her, and Beatrice tightened her arms around Robert. “Why would Mary do such a thing?”

  “Unfortunately, the person who really knows the answer to that question can no longer tell us.”

  The wheels of the carriage were loud on the gravel-covered road. The wind, sharp and fast, sounded a high-pitched keening as if to mourn Mary.

  “But you suspect,” Beatrice said.

  “For the sake of love. It makes fools of all of us.”

  “But did it make her a murderer?”

  “I suspect she wanted my father to be duke,” Devlen said.

  “Did she love him so much she was willing to kill a child?”

  “Not for him. For Rowena.”

  She closed her eyes, placed her cheek against Robert’s head, and exhaled a breath. “To make her the Duchess of Brechin.”