“You have a son, I understand,” Lady Kempton said. “About the age of my Nicholas?”
“A year younger, I believe, my lady. He is eight.”
“His name?” Her attitude indicated I might well be introducing a pickpocket into the household. Or perhaps a London street child smelling strongly of dead fish.
“Chas, my lady.”
“Chas!” Lady Hadley exclaimed. “Most unusual.”
“It is a short form of Chastain, my lady, a name common in my family.”
Lady Hadley sniffed. The smell of dead fish grew stronger.
“And your people?” Lady Kempton asked. “Where do you come from?”
“A village in Warwickshire, my lady, one I am certain you have never heard of. My father was vicar there. We lived very quietly,” I added as I began to wander further from the truth.
“And your mother?”
“She was the daughter of a gentleman scholar who lived nearby. We lost her in childbirth when I was ten. My father was not pleased when I married a man not of his choosing, and we have been estranged for some years.” I could only hope this story did not sound as hollow to my listeners’ ears as it did to mine. So much drama encapsulated in so few words.
Evidently not, as Lady Kempton moved on to her next question. Perhaps she had few acquaintances in Warwickshire, rendering her unable to torture me with the classic game of “Do you know . . .?”
“And Mr. Tyrell?” she asked. Have you been widowed long?”
Here I was on stronger footing. The truth would do as well as fiction. “He has been gone for more than two years, ma’am. He was a superb horseman yet somehow he took a toss at a fence he had jumped countless times before.” Dear God, how I hated to talk about it. The vision of the men bringing Avery’s body home in a cart would haunt me for the rest of my life.
“And after such a tragedy, you could not turn to your family for assistance?” Lady Hadley asked, revealing what looked almost like genuine concern. It was possible my indicating that Avery hunted was sufficient to establish him as a gentleman.
“We had always lived modestly, my lady, and at the time it seemed easier to lease our property and accumulate the funds for Chas’s schooling than it would to go hat in hand to my father.” Which conveniently skipped the last two years of quite comfortable living in Kent, marred only by our sorrow and the incident that had sent me scurrying to my godmama’s in London.
As I’d hoped, the ladies had enough delicacy of mind not to press me further, leaving Mr. Lunsford the sole possessor of the fact that I had lived in Kent, as that was the direction on all the letters of character I had provided. My surge of satisfaction that the ladies seemed to have accepted the less than complete portrait of my childhood was short-lived. Lady Kempton stiffened her shoulders, stuck her chin in the air. I could almost see green sparks leaping at me from those hazel eyes. “To hear Lunsford talk, one would think your son a pattern card of rectitude, Mrs. Tyrell. Is this true?”
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I assure you he is just a typical boy, restless, a bit too venturesome at times, occasionally naughty. I can only hope his manners will meet the standards of this household and give you no disgust of him.”
I sensed my answer mollified her to some small extent, yet all the tension was back. Suspicion, wariness, fear . . .? My own worries interfered with my being able to analyze the source.
“Nicholas is high-spirited,” Lady Hadley offered, “an admittedly difficult child.”
“Mama!”
“Well, he is, my dear, there’s no skirting round it.” She turned back to me. “Lunsford may think having a companion his own age will help, but truthfully, Mrs. Tyrell, I have my doubts. I caution you to have a care.”
“Mama, how can you say such a thing?”
“I may be a doting grandmother, Cressida, but I am not blind to all reason. Recent events—”
“He’s a baby, mama. He could not possibly have done those things!”
“Nicholas is a holy terror, Cressy. You forget I raised two boys of my own. Your son is simply . . . not natural.”
Demon child. And this from his own grandmother. Shivers cascaded through me. Ridiculous! Nicholas was a fatherless child with an uncle whose outward appearance could send an adult, let alone a child, screaming into the night. His mother, alas, a woman too autocratic for her own good, a woman who could never find harm in her child.
“I would remind you, Mrs. Tyrell,” Lady Kempton declared most awfully, “that Nicholas is a viscount. He is not subject to the discipline of a–a vicar’s daughter.”
I drew myself up, my hands white-knuckling in my lap as I fought to control my temper. “I am your son’s governess, Lady Kempton. It is my duty not only to teach him but to reprimand him when his behavior goes beyond the acceptable.”
“You are not to lay a hand on him!” she shrieked, jumping to her feet, hands fisted, glaring at me as if I were the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
“Good heavens, Lady Kempton, I have no intention of laying hands on him, I assure you. But he will mind me, or some way will be found to punish him, this I promise.” The specters of the two previous governesses swayed before me, reminding me I was likely as powerless to change things at Lunsford Hall as they had been.
Out of courtesy, I too had risen from my seat, and God alone knows what might have happened next if the door had not opened and Mr. Lunsford walked in.
“Jason! This is a surprise,” Lady Hadley declared.
The firelight flickered over his face as he took in the clearly adversarial scene, casting a mix of light and shadow that somehow ameliorated the stark ugliness of his face. In any event I felt no revulsion. He had served king and country and been maimed through no fault of his own. I did, however, feel fear. It seemed likely this day could be the end, as well as the beginning, of my days at Lunsford Hall.
After a thought-filled glance in my direction, Mr. Lunsford said, “I considered it best to discuss tomorrow’s introduction of Mrs. Tyrell and her son to Nicholas. Do be seated, ladies.” Meekly, I resumed my seat. Lady Kempton flounced back onto the sofa. Truly, there is no other word to describe the flourish with which she flung herself backwards, waving her defiance like a battle flag.
In spite of Lady Kempton’s posturing, I quickly discovered “discuss” was a mere courtesy word. We women sat and listened while Mr. Lunsford described how, where, and at what time Chas and I would meet Nicholas, Viscount Kempton. To say I ascended the stairs to our room with considerable trepidation would be putting it mildly. Avery, how could you do something so stupidly careless as to break your neck, leaving your family in the lurch?
Chapter Four
Except for the defiant sneer on his face, which strongly reminded me of his mama, Nicholas, Viscount Kempton, looked as little like a demon child as my Chas. Well, possibly I exaggerate a trifle. His hair was as dark as his mother’s, his eyes an odd shade of yellow-green, like some jungle cat. And his proud stance as he made a reluctant bow in my direction and flashed green fire at Chas did not bode well for a successful outcome to his uncle’s hope that the boys would be friends.
Mr. Lunsford was present at this first meeting, of course, as was Lady Kempton and the rather formidable woman introduced as Nurse Robbins. Lunsford’s dark eyes directed a warning glint at his nephew as he made Chas and me known to him. The rays of an early summer sun shone like a beacon through the nursery’s many windows, ruthlessly delineating every rosy ridge and puckered edge of the slash across my employer’s face. He was the stuff of nightmares, though Chas—to whom I had lectured at some length about looking for gold beneath the dross—seemed not at all disturbed by my employer’s deformity. Ghoulish little things, boys.
“Mrs. Tyrell will spend the remainder of the morning discovering where you are in your studies, Nicholas,” Mr. Lunsford decreed. “This afternoon, you may show her and her son around the park. You will make sure Chastain–ah–Chas?”
“If you please, sir,” Chas re
sponded so politely relief poured through me. Chas could be quite adamant about not being called Chastain. And why I gave him the name of the family that had turned their backs on me I have never been able to understand. But Chas, young as he was, had evidently felt the tension and refused to be a Chastain.
“You will make sure Chas,” Mr. Lunsford continued, “is aware of the dangers of the drainage ditches and of the marsh. You will explain the tides and how easily they can come in behind an unwary stranger. Is that clear, Nicholas?”
“Yes, sir.” I thought I caught a spark of interest—or perhaps it was pride—in Nicholas’s eyes as he was entrusted with what was clearly an important chore. Chas’s sweet face, blond curls, and sky blue eyes, might make the ladies in Kent declare him an angel, but he was far from it. In fact, my greatest fear was that Chas was far more likely to succumb to the influence of a naughty Nicholas than the young viscount was to absorb my son’s good nature.
“Surely you will send someone with them?” Lady Kempton actually allowed her anxious gaze to rest on her brother-in-law’s face.
“Don’t be a widgeon, Cressida. The boy is quite capable of conducting a tour of the grounds.”
Ah! Somehow I had not expected him to be so sharp with her. She was a lovely creature, if more of a doting mother than was good for her son.
“Do not be unkind, Jason,” she snapped back. “You know how I worry.”
“As well you might,” he muttered, dropping his gaze to his highly polished black boots. Avoiding Lady Kempton’s scrutiny? I wondered. “Nonetheless, I believe Nicholas will manage the thing without supervision, giving him an excellent opportunity to become acquainted with Mrs. Tyrell and her son outside the schoolroom. And now,” he added more briskly, “let us depart and allow Mrs. Tyrell to take up the position for which she was employed.” Mr. Lunsford took Lady Kempton by the elbow and steered her toward the door, where he paused, turning back to direct his gaze toward Nurse Robbins. A tall, hatchet-faced woman of forty or so, she looked more like a strapping farm wench, or perhaps the warden of a woman’s prison, than a benign ruler of the nursery.
“Robbins, you will see that proper teas and meals are provided for our newcomers. For dinner, however”—his glance flicked toward me then rapidly away—“Mrs. Tyrell will dine with the family.” With that, he swept Lady Kempton out the door, leaving me more than a little disconcerted. Clearly, his pronouncement was unexpected—Lady Kempton’s gasp of shock left no doubt about that. Last night I was tolerated at table, but there could be little doubt that the ladies had not expected to see me again, except possibly when I accompanied Nicholas to the drawing room to make his bow to his mother and grandmother. Perhaps not even then, I conceded, for Nicholas was quite capable of find the drawing room on his own, while Miranda Tyrell was confined to the upper stories of Lunsford Hall, unseen, unheard. Unwanted.
Which was not going to happen, thanks to Mr. Lunsford, whose face seemed to become less scarred by the moment.
“Shall I ask the nursery maid to prepare a room for–er–Master. Chas?” Nurse Robbins asked, disapproval bristling in every word. I wasn’t sure which had offended her the most, another child in the nursery or my being invited to dine with family.
Without consulting Chas, I said, “I believe we will leave things as they are for the moment, Nurse. At least until the boys have had a chance to become better acquainted.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her sniff as she turned away was loud and clear. Was there no one in this benighted household who was friendly?
For shame, my inner voice mocked. What about Mrs. Allard? Josie. The footman who guided you to the nursery. And Lunsford. How could I forget my employer, who had been all that was gracious, in spite of the severe reserve dictated by his deformity. Jason Lunsford, a man whose hurt ran deep . . .
Foolish creature, you are the governess, not mistress of the house. It is not your responsibility to solve the problems at Lunsford Hall. You are being paid to teach young Nicholas, to coach him in manners and conduct as well as scholarly pursuits.
But ignoring nearly a decade of running my own establishment was not as easy as I had thought. And besides, I justified, how was I to perform my duties in a house seething with tensions? If only . . .
Nonsense, all nonsense. I was here to work, to follow my employer’s directions, ignoring all else.
“Very well,” I declared, turning to the two boys who were standing about six feet apart, one looking as mulish as the other. “Lord Kempton,” I said, “since I will be calling my son by his first name during our lessons, I wonder if I might do the same for you. Is that possible?”
The oddest look crossed his face. “Even my mother calls me Kempton.”
My first error—if I didn’t count the outrage of being invited to dine with the family.
“But Nicholas is acceptable,” he added on a mutter. “ In private. When Mama is not about.”
Dear Lord, thank you! A tiny chink in my charge’s armor, but it was a start. “Both of you, please sit at the table over there,” I said. “And, Chas, we shall discover just how far ahead of you Nicholas is in his studies.”
Nicholas, evidently pleased by words indicating his superiority, sauntered to one of the scaled-down chairs and sat. Chas, his lips burgeoning into a pout, did the same. The next two hours were a surprise. Chas is a very bright boy, well ahead of others his age. Nicholas bested him easily. How he managed was a mystery as, from all I had heard, governesses and tutors had come and gone as quickly as chaff before the wind. When I asked Nicholas where he had learned one particularly esoteric bit of history, which he had offered in an obvious desire to top Chas’s grasp of the topic, he admitted that he had learned it from his uncle. Further questioning revealed that Lunsford, though a hard taskmaster, frequently spent time with his nephew.
Of course. What better place to hide than a nursery, with no other eyes upon him but the easily adaptable gaze of a child. But I instantly suspected that my speculation wronged Mr. Lunsford. He might be the boy’s guardian, but there was no rule that said he had to do more than look after the boy’s financial affairs, oversee his estate, and make sure Nicholas went to a school commensurate with his rank. Mr. Lunsford was to be commended for his interest . . .
My straying thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Peg, the nursery maid, with a generous luncheon, confirming what I had already seen at Lunsford Hall. Mr. Lunsford did not lack for funds, nor was he cheese-paring in his ways.
On such a remarkably fine day in late June, it was impossible to find even a hint of the sinister at Lunsford Hall. Nicholas began our tour of the park by leading us out a door on the west side of the house, past the kitchen garden, through a door in a sheltering brick wall, and into a garden where I simply had to stop and stare. In full bloom, it was magnificent, the borders and beds glowing under the summer sun, the sweet scent filling the air around us. Iris, lupine, poppies, peonies, delphinium, dianthus, roses of every variety and color, as well as flowers I could not name if my life depended on it. Though relatively small, it was simply glorious, far better than anything I had managed in Kent.
Nicholas, with something between a sneer and an apology, addressed a remark to Chas out of the side of his mouth. “Ladies always like this sort of thing.”
Chas, his face puckered in the guise of wise old man, stuck out his lower lip and nodded. To me, Nicholas added rather grandly, “Lunsford has tolerable gardeners. They do it all, you know. Mama and Grandmama don’t know one flower from another.” I had to turn my face away to hide my amusement. So far, the only wicked thing about Viscount Kempton was his unruly tongue.
With a vague wave of his hand, Nicholas indicated that the stables and other outbuildings lurked behind a thin stand of middling-sized trees on the far side of the garden. And just beyond that, he warned, was a deep drainage ditch, straight as a die, leading to the salt marsh on the south. As we circumnavigated the house and walked along the great loop of the front drive, Nicholas pointed out a much b
roader ditch that ran parallel to the road that led to the village. We turned south toward the marsh, the hard-packed sand of the road soon dwindling into nothing more than a path. Lunsford Hall, it seemed marked the end of local civilization.
To our right, however, was a low line of brilliant color, although we had to walk a good fifty yards, the path gradually descending toward the great salt marsh, before I could identify the source. The long splash of color came from a low-lying barricade of lethally spined wild roses which seemed to extend the entire southern width of the park, their single-layer blooms in red, rose, and white set against an impenetrable hedge of dark green leaves. When I finally raised my gaze from the colorful sight, nothing but salt marsh stretched out before me, with a thin blue line in the distance that might have been the sea, but which blended so well with the horizon that it was difficult to tell.
I assumed this was the end of our tour, but Nicholas motioned us forward, plunging down a path so narrow between the short, sharp spines of the wild rose branches that we were forced to walk single-file. The sand softened, giving way with each step, our feet leaving great amorphous gouges as we plowed through it. And there it was—a vast expanse of sea grass and sand, marked by rivulets of water, some even broad enough to be called channels. Myriad small creatures scuttled across the exposed patches of sand. Tiny mounds of excavated grains marked dark holes where miniature crabs, and who knew what else, made their homes. Chas stared, eyes wide, mouth agape, clearly fascinated by this new world.
“You heard what my uncle said,” Nicholas barked at Chas in a fine imitation of Mr. Lunsford. “You don’t set foot in the marsh any more than you be daft enough to fall in a ditch. The tide’s low right now, but when it comes in, the water’s deep. And it can sneak up behind you, putting water that’s over your head between you and the shore. The rose bushes were planted by the former owner to keep his children safe, and nothing’s changed. You understand, boy? No wandering off. You can get yourself killed.”
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 3
