His cherubic face, golden curls, and blue eyes illuminated the room. Yet he looked out of place, like a trapped butterfly. Bettina wanted to hug him. “Bonjour, I’m certainly glad to meet you, young man. Please call me mademoiselle.”
Bettina sat in a wing chair, deciding how to begin. The weather was mild today and she suddenly wanted to give this child some air. “Put on your jacket and we will walk around the grounds, oui?”
The boy nodded eagerly. They stepped out under the gray sky and strolled in front of the manor. A brown speckled curlew flew over their heads. Bettina pointed up. “That is a bird. In French, c'est un oiseau.” The boy repeated it. She did the same for tree—arbre, and sky—ciel.
Frederick stumbled over the pronunciation, but tried hard, his little pink face screwing up at the unfamiliar words.
The grounds at the back of the manor looked sullen with neglect. A ramshackle barn and weathered stables sat back amongst overgrown gorse and bracken. The view gave her a bleak feeling and she huddled inside her cloak.
“Let’s go into the garden,” Frederick said, running toward the south side of Bronnmargh. “You can visit my own wild jungle.” He laughed as he led her through an iron gate with a rusty ‘C’ at its center.
“Garden is jardin,” Bettina said, stepping in. “Nous devrions entrer dans le jardin.”
Little walkways with scattered gravel separated rows of misshapen half-dead rose bushes, boxwood and yew. Four stone benches sat empty and forgotten, moss growing in the cracks. Gnarled ivy crept up the high stonewalls. The area was tangled with furze and weeds, and dried leaves never swept aside. She smelled the damp scent of decay, and shivered.
“My mother told me she loved to play in here when she was a child. When it still looked pretty,” Frederick said as they poked through where they could, brittle branches scratching at their clothes.
Bettina resisted the urge to ask if his mother mentioned Mr. Camborne being carefree enough to play alongside her. Maybe his ‘missing’ wife once labored here, keeping a family tradition. But now no one tended to it. This child beside her might end up as neglected as the grounds and house seemed to be. She dismissed that unpleasant thought and waited for the boy to elaborate on his mother, but he didn’t.
Bettina pointed out each plant and told the boy the French name. She thought of this as an introduction to the language and was delighted by his enthusiasm. Unlike the other denizens of the manor, he was also polite and friendly.
When they returned to the front of Bronnmargh, Mr. Camborne awaited them. Bettina suddenly felt uneasy, as if they had done something wrong. He nodded to her and smiled down at Frederick. “Did you have a good lesson?” he asked the child.
“Oh, yes, she’s very nice. She taught me ‘Bonjour Oncle’.” The boy beamed at him, and Bettina couldn’t help a smile. Camborne put out his hand and the child took it without hesitation.
“Thank you, Miss Laurant. We will see you on Thursday.” Camborne’s stiff manner returned as he addressed her. He and Frederick entered the house, talking in happy voices.
“Au revoir, Frederick. Mr. Camborne,” she said, before turning toward the coach.
On Thursday, Bettina found her salary waiting for her on the oak desk. How fabulous to have this much money in her hands, she mused as she clinked the coins together. She never realized before leaving France how vital, how hard-won it was, to have enough money.
She’d debated, once she found her mother, on buying a business of her own: a nice respectable shop. Maddie demonstrated by example that a capable woman could handle a business, even if Bettina considered running an inn not her forte.
With the revolution still raging in France, her hopes of return faded. Since the aristocrats were losing their place in society, she and her mother might do well managing a shop together. Before too long, she could finance her way to London.
* * * *
Muscles knotted with anticipation, Bettina alighted the coach in front of Bronnmargh. Over a week had passed with no glimpse of Mr. Camborne. She didn’t relish being ignored and even felt challenged to flaunt her worth, since he’d thought so little of her to begin with. Because of that, she’d asked the butler to set up a meeting with his employer the next time she came, if it wasn’t inconvenient. Mr. Slate had registered nothing at her request, inconvenient or not.
Before entering the library, Bettina smoothed her dress and tucked a stray hair under the chip hat. Then she opened the door.
Mr. Camborne sat at the desk, his look solemn. She masked her satisfaction that he’d conceded to her request. “Mr. Camborne, I want to report Frederick's progress.” Her employer’s stare tilted her off-balance and that frustrated her. “He is doing well. He is smart and willing to study.” She paused to analyze his face. “Do you think I’m working out adequate as a teacher?”
Camborne’s eyes appraised her as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her. “You appear very capable, Miss Laurant. Frederick is pleased with your instruction.”
“Would you care to sit in on a lesson, so you can see how well he does?” Determined to forge a relationship for the child’s sake, Bettina couldn’t deny her own curiosity about this man. “It is important for the family to be involved.”
Frederick peeked around the library door, and Bettina called him in.
“Perhaps … just this once.” His manner still guarded, Mr. Camborne watched with a measure of interest as she and the boy went over the words from the previous lesson. He stoked the fire and kept his own council. Acutely aware of his presence in the room, Bettina pretended the opposite.
At the conclusion of the lesson, Frederick excused himself. Bettina picked up her hat and turned to Mr. Camborne. “I think that went splendid, do you not?”
He stared at her a moment and she grew uneasy again under his scrutiny. “Very commendable, indeed. Good afternoon, Miss Laurant.”
Bettina smiled at him with a bright flash of teeth, something—to her shame—she’d practiced before her looking glass. She then pondered her need to draw closer to someone who might have sinister inclinations.
* * * *
“You’re up at Bronnmargh now, aye?” Old Milt needled Bettina the next evening in the taproom. The curmudgeon took pleasure in taunting her after their first unfortunate encounter. “First ’ee go off with that lout Newlyn to a dance, where he don’t dance. Now you’re after Mr. Camborne?”
“My personal life is none of your concern,” Bettina said as she served his ale. She smiled and walked away from him.
“An’ Stephen weren’t good enough for her neither. She wants the quality, the Squire,” Dory said with a smirk. She laughed and tweaked the ear of a local miner, who then slapped her on her ample bottom. “We’re beneath the likes o’ her.”
“Dory, mind your jaw, jealous jade.” Kerra turned to Bettina. “Is Mr. Camborne more friendly to you now?” She dispensed drinks at the casks, since Maddie was out at the butcher’s disputing a bill with the man.
“He is civil enough.” Bettina brought over a tray of cheese and bread and set it on the front table. “He seems good to his nephew.”
“Does you think he did it, killed his wife?” Kerra whispered, coming close, the pungent smell of alcohol coming off her hands and clothes.
“I do not think about it at all,” Bettina said, a half-lie, as she sliced the cheese. “He seems … a lonely man.”
“Suppose I’d be lonely too, if I done my wife in,” Kerra muttered under her breath.
“Oh, please … I am sure it is not true.” Bettina tried not to laugh at her friend’s comment.
“What does it look like, inside the place? It be fancy?” Kerra turned the tap as Dory came up for a Stout.
“I have only seen one room in front, an elegant library.” Bettina put a slab of butter next to the bread.
“Did you ask to see the cellar? That’s where Vida swore the Mistress were buried,” Dory giggled, before she returned to her miner, who pulled her onto his lap.
“He’s a cruel
rogue, no doubt. A strange family, them Cambornes,” Old Milt said with a cackle. “You know Mr. Camborne’s mother run off, left the place, after his father died? She couldn’t stand bein’ up there with her son and his snooty wife an’ all the fights they had.” The codger glared at Bettina. “Fetch me another ale, girl.”
“Was you there? You be a great one to talk ’bout anyone.” Kerra swatted toward his face as if he were a pesky fly. “Livin’ off the poor money from the parish, ’cause no one can bear to look at you to offer no job. You’ve spent plenty o’ time in the Bodmin debtors’ prison.”
“I try not to judge people without knowing all the facts.” Bettina took the old man’s empty tankard. “Not even one like you.”
“Afore long, ’ee be under the house next to the former Mistress.” Old Milt didn’t laugh this time, but his eyes held a malignant glitter. “Always a speck o’ truth in gossip, girl.”
Bettina turned away and walked toward the casks, clenching the tankard. “Do you know how much it would cost for coach fare to London?” she asked as Kerra dribbled liquid in it.
“Wouldn’t be goin’ by coach now. I heard a highwayman’s hauntin’ the roads. The safest way to travel is by post-chaise, more private. Cost ’bout twelve guineas for that fare. Why?”
“It … is not important.” After delivering the old man’s ale, Bettina walked into the kitchen. With her new knowledge of English money, she calculated twelve guineas. She swallowed hard; it was a tremendous sum for a girl in her position.
* * * *
Rain splattered the coach window. The driver hopped down and opened the door. Bettina hid her surprise and rushed into the manor, out of the March downpour. She hung up her dripping cloak, wiped her shoes near the front door, and entered the library, but Frederick wasn’t there.
“Sit down, will you please, Miss Laurant.” Mr. Camborne’s staunch figure occupied the desk. He even stood until she sat in a winged chair.
He was dismissing her already, she feared as she shifted on the leather. He discovered his civility and now chose to rid himself of the nuisance. She held her damp hands together.
A plump, fiftyish woman trotted in and placed a silver tea service on the desk. She gave Bettina a flicker of curiosity, then departed. “Tea, Miss Laurant? I must apologize for the way I treated you on our first meeting,” he said, though still maintaining his formal air. “My manners were far from acceptable.”
Bettina’s pulse quickened. Would he bother to apologize and serve tea to someone he discharged? “Merci, I … hoped we could become better acquainted, since I am working with your nephew. He is a dear little boy.”
“He adores you as well, Miss Laurant. You appear to be a far more educated young woman than I first thought. I had doubts as to your qualifications.” He handed her a delicate porcelain cup and saucer. She noted the gracefulness of his hands. “I don’t like to pry into people's affairs, as I don’t want them prying into mine. But I can't help wondering why you work and live in an inn. Since you present a refinement at odds with your situation.”
“The story is complicated. I had no place to go at the time, and Miss Tregons has been generous to me.” Bettina didn’t add that it wouldn’t have been her first choice; her loyalty to Maddie grew stronger every day. She put more sugar in her tea, a sweet luxury, and sipped it.
“Where is your family, have you no one?” Camborne’s question came out rather dry, like her music tutor requesting she turn the page of a composition.
“I do have someone. I have plans to be reunited with them, soon.” Her reply sounded more wistful than she intended and a silence lingered between them. She sipped more of the sweet tea, feeling it warm up her innards.
“Are you … pleased with your position here?” He seemed at a loss for the rudiments of casual conversation, but at least he made the effort.
“I am pleased. It is delightful to tutor your nephew, with his enthusiasm.” Now she felt at a loss, uncomfortable in persisting. Her previous boldness had vanished. Fiddling with the teacup in her lap, she smiled at him.
“Fair enough. If everything is satisfactory, I’ll bring Frederick in.” He gave a slight smile in return, before rising to his feet—a very tall, imposing figure.
“Of course.” Bettina found his smile more intriguing than his apology.
Camborne brought the boy into the library and hesitated near the open door. Bettina dove right into her lesson and wondered if he intended to stay. When she glanced up, he wasn’t watching them at all. He stared out the window with a look she could only describe as preoccupied and troubled. She felt a stab of pity diluted with mistrust.
* * * *
In the taproom that night, Bettina’s thoughts kept sliding to Mr. Camborne, and she wished they wouldn’t. The master of Bronnmargh had no place in her scheme of things, and she knew she occupied no place in his.
Someone poked her shoulder. “There’s a man sittin’ in the corner,” Dory said with a suggestive wink. “Don’t think he’s ever been in here afore. Says he wants a Porter … but wants the French girl to serve him.”
“Tell him I am too busy.” Bettina swiped at an ale spill near the kitchen door. “Why would a stranger say that?”
“Don’t know.” Dory shrugged her round shoulders, her worn bodice slipping off one of them; she didn’t bother to pull it back. “But he don’t want no one else. He’s wearing a huge hat, over in the far right corner.”
Bettina sighed. “He probably wants to taunt me because of my wicked country. I will not trouble with him.”
“They’s all looking for trouble, ain’t they?” Dory laughed, pushing her breasts higher above her corset to reveal more cleavage. “Might get a nice vail from him, if you’re good an’ friendly.”
The customers had thinned out, the candles flickering low. Bettina reluctantly ordered a Porter from Maddie and approached the corner table. The man sat in semi-darkness, the shadows draping a bulky body with beefy shoulders and arms. A broad-brimmed hat obscured his face. She noticed, when she set the tankard in front of him, that he wore a gaudy, red-stoned ring on his right hand. He had big, blunt-fingered hands.
“Thanks, m’lady,” he croaked, not glancing up. He didn’t offer of a tip for this courtesy, nor make any attempt to mock her origins. She left him in silence, relieved, yet disconcerted that he’d address her as “m’lady.”
When they closed for the night, Bettina off-handedly asked Dory for details.
“Not much to tell. Just ‘I want a Porter, have the French girl serve it’. Didn’t want no one else. That were ’bout it.” Dory pulled a few coins out from between her breasts, her manner indifferent. “Oh, he did ask what your name be, an’ had an odd way of talkin’. Foreign sounding, kind o’ like you.”
Chapter Ten
Settled into the now familiar library at Bronnmargh, Bettina absorbed the clean scent of leather and beeswax, and the warmth of a fire with sea-coal and no meat roasting over it. She reached out and squeezed Frederick’s arm when he fumbled over his sentences. “You have to think of the French language … as a graceful sound, with a beautiful rhythm.”
“Like a drum? Uncle promised he’d bring me a drum from Africa.” The boy kicked his stool leg. “If he travels there on his business.”
“No, not so like a drum.” She smiled at his earnest expression. “What sort of business does your uncle do?” Bettina tried to sound casual. Though curious about Mr. Camborne, she’d never asked Frederick about his private affairs.
“He … ships things. Across the sea, to other places. He’s a merchant shipper. Someday he says I can travel with him, and see other lands.” The child sounded wistful, as if unsure this might happen.
“Visit to other lands, that does sound exciting.” When she glanced at him, he had a pensive look on his face, which he replaced with a smile the instant he caught her gaze. The little boy’s cheerfulness might be a façade. After all he’d been through, Bettina couldn’t fault him. She shuffled through the papers she us
ed to write down lessons. “I will need some more paper, if your uncle can spare them.” Bettina hated to admit she’d returned here in anticipation of seeing Mr. Camborne. She shook off such folly. “Try again—”
“Mademoiselle, we can ask him. He’s across the hall in the parlor.” The boy hopped off his stool.
“No, I do not want to disturb him.” She felt her cheeks burn as if he’d read her thoughts.
“It will be all right.” He scampered from the room.
“Wait, please, Frederick….” Bettina stood and followed reluctantly. She was concerned that the child evaded his lesson for the first time. Frederick opened a door across the hall to an unexpected room covered in bright ivory silk wallpaper. A pale pink marble fireplace shimmered in front of Bettina, and an exquisite pianoforte sat to the left. She resisted the urge to approach it.
Mr. Camborne rose from a cream-colored brocade settee on the right.
Bettina stared in dismay. “I am so sorry to bother you, Mr. Camborne. But Frederick insisted.” She backed up a step and motioned for the boy to come out. “We must resume the lesson.”
“Frederick can be impulsive at times.” Camborne smiled indulgently at his nephew. His gaze even seemed warmer toward her. Bettina noticed an open book behind him on the settee. Robinson Crusoe, by Daniel Defoe; it was about a man marooned alone on an island.
“Uncle, Mademoiselle Bettina needs more paper.” Frederick grinned up at him. Camborne ruffled the child’s curls.
“It is nothing I need at this moment.” Bettina couldn’t suppress a smile at the affectionate gesture. “You have a nice pianoforte.” In the silence, she felt she had to say more. “Do you play, Mr. Camborne?”
Camborne’s gaze flicked to the instrument in transient distaste. “No. No, I don't.”
“Aunt Miriam used to.” Frederick went over to the bench. “Have you ever played, Mademoiselle?”
“I have not played in a long time.” Bettina didn’t look at Camborne after the mention of his wife. She stepped up and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We must go.”
Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) Page 10
