If ever a child knew he was born to aristocratic rank . . . yet I could not fault him for it. At this point the worst I could say about Nicholas was that he was too prickly to be lovable. Frankly, so far I could not understand what all the fuss was about.
Curiosity got the better of the rectitude expected from a governess. “Former owner?” I asked.
“This was once Talmadge Park, Mrs. Tyrell. My Grandfather Kempton’s brother won it in a card game and left it to Lunsford but three years ago while he was still on the Peninsula.”
“Oh. Thank you.” For the life of me, I could not think of a more proper response. And surely I deserved to be disconcerted for poking my nose into family business. I should be ashamed of myself. But, truthfully, Nicholas’s information only set my head to clanging with a dozen more questions. Quite possibly, the Lunsfords had a past as checkered as my own.
“There are cross-ditches, as well,” Nicholas offered, returning to his task as tour guide. “So don’t go wandering about without watching where you’re going. There’s a ride, however,” he said, speaking directly to me, “a well-marked path with bridges over the ditches that leads directly to the village.”
“Thank you, Nicholas. Chas and I shall enjoy exploring that on my half-day.”
“No need to walk, ma’am. Uncle will give you a horse.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. I swayed, with nothing to grab but a branch with a thousand spines imbedded in it. “Mama! A small hand grabbed my arm. A second hand supported me on my other side. Not Chas, I realized, fighting for control. Nicholas. I forced my eyes open to find two pair of eyes staring at me with all the horror of young boys confronted by female weakness. Adult female weakness, when I was supposed to be their mentor, their unflappable model of proper behavior. Horrified, I muttered my thanks, adding something about a sudden cramp in my leg, that I had grown lazy from the weeks spent in London, when truly I was a country girl at heart.
Babbling. I was babbling, and both boys knew it. They stepped back, suddenly awkward and shy, not knowing what to say or do next. Well, I thought as my wits returned, at least they now had something in common. I had embarrassed them both.
Wasn’t that a grand way to start my service at Lunsford Hall?
I managed a smile. “Nicholas, thank you for such a comprehensive tour. Chas and I will heed your warnings, I assure you. And now, if you would be so kind as to lead us home, I believe we could all do with a wash.”
We returned to the house in silence, but once again Nicholas surprised me. As we entered the hall through the front door, he turned to Chas and said with a touch of surly indifference, “You can come with me, if you like. I’ll show you the soldiers my uncle gave me.” Chas, eyes shining—because of the invitation or in relief to escape his mama’s odd conduct?—bounded up the stairs in Nicholas’s wake. I followed at a much slower pace, but not before catching a glance of sympathy from Stebbins, Lunsford Hall’s butler.
Chapter Five
At supper that night I was informed, rather peremptorily, that Mr. Lunsford expected me at table at half-eight the next morning and that I would not be expected to begin lessons until an hour later. Breakfast with the family as well? I admit I was flattered. Until I entered the breakfast room on the east side of the house and found the table set for only two. My employer stood, bowed, and said, “The ladies are seldom seen before ten. They prefer to break their fast in their rooms.” He waved his hand at a sideboard groaning with mysterious offerings hidden beneath domes of silver. “Please help yourself.”
A fleeting urge to run swept over me, though I couldn’t have said why. Mr. Lunsford was all politeness, I was growing more accustomed to his face, and yet . . . inviting the governess to be his sole companion for breakfast seemed more than a trifle outré. Perhaps Mrs. Allard was right when she hinted that he had an eye for the ladies. And certainly he must be lonely, living such an isolated life with the only adults of his rank two women who could not even bear to look at him.
But I was not fair game—he must be made to understand that!
I looked down to discover that in my abstraction I had piled on my plate rather more than I could ever eat. Silver clanged against silver as I plopped the cover back over a platter of shirred eggs. Hastily, I took my seat, murmuring a breathy, “Please do not get up,” as I slid into place.
Dinner last night had been as silent as the day before, so Mr. Lunsford surprised me when he opened a conversation. “Did Nicholas give you a proper tour of the park, Mrs. Tyrell?”
I hastily washed down a mouthful of kipper with a swallow of tea and assured him the tour had been comprehensive, very well managed. “I have seen salt marshes in Kent, of course,” I observed, “but this one is so vast. It’s like looking out toward the end of the world.”
“You’ll hear stories,” he ventured and then fell silent, suddenly turning his head toward the window, where heavy clouds were adding a gloomy cast to the day.
“What stories, Mr. Lunsford?” I prompted. Was he about to elaborate on his rather cryptic remarks about Nicholas?
He huffed a breath and turned back, though he kept his gaze on his plate as he spoke—an ingrained reflex, I suspected, designed to keep his face from frightening people. “Lights flickering in the marsh, mysterious bonfires, dead animals. Mostly wild talk,” he added hastily, “but we are cursed with a curate with more imagination than wit who feeds the flames with rhetoric more suitable to the sixteenth century than our enlightened times.” With these last words Mrs. Lunsford’s voice became a snarl, which sent a shiver rippling through me.
“Is there any truth to the rumors?” I asked.
He looked directly at me, and oddly my eyes skipped over the devastation and saw only the fullness of his lips, the depth of the anguish in his eyes. “I have seen the lights on the marsh—quite easily the result of someone in a flat-bottomed boat playing tricks when the tide is right. There have been at least two bonfires—both deserted and burned to embers by the time we tracked them down. But they were on the embankment above fields of grain—with only a narrow ditch between the fire and a spark that could have destroyed an entire crop. As for the animals . . .” He shook his head. “First, it was a dead cat, found on the path to our kitchen garden. After that, a gutted dog on the church steps—”
As I sucked in a sharp breath, Mr. Lunsford jerked his head away, his gaze once again fixed on the tall windows, where rain was now beating against the panes. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered. “This is scarcely a proper topic while you are eating.”
True. But I appreciated the warning. Mr. Lunsford might simply be hoping that a rational disclosure of the problems would deter me from giving notice. Or was it possible he was in dire need of someone to talk to, and since I had shown no propensity for running from him in horror, I had been chosen as his confidant.
“Please continue,” I said. “I am not particularly squeamish, and surely ignorance will not make me a better governess.”
Mr. Lunsford gave me a sharp look then nodded, proceeding in a tone less measured, no longer attempting to conceal a deep core of bitterness. “There are whispers of demons and witches, and what’s to be done about it, I don’t know. It’s grown to the point where every stillborn calf or pig is blamed on a demon’s curse.” Lunsford placed the outstretched fingers of his good hand to his brow, hiding most of his scar. “Worst of all, I am beginning to believe they’re right. Evil walks among us, each day the talk growing more vicious—and each day turning more directly towards Lunsford Hall. We, it seems, are the root of the all evil, the source of the poison spreading over our part of the county. When they whisper of the Demon of Fenley Marsh, I suspect they mean me.”
“How is this possible?” I demanded, wide-eyed. And then was mortified as Mr. Lunsford dropped his hand and looked me full in the face, his dark eyes proclaiming me an idiot. “I beg your pardon,” I gasped, “but surely no one would accuse a soldier who has been wounded in battle.”
“Ah, but
the inside of my head is undoubtedly as scarred as the outside.” His gaze continued to hold mine, willing me to understand.
Amazingly, I discovered I was more shocked by the vehemence of my indignation on his behalf than I was by the accusations against him. I scarcely knew the man, but I absolutely refused to consider him capable of stooping to such nasty and dangerous mischief. A gang of rowdy boys, perhaps, but not—
“And then there are those who say Nicholas too is a demon spawn,” Mr. Lunsford pronounced. “My familiar, if you will.”
Demon child. The words of the farmer in the coach rushed back to haunt me.
“He even has the Devil’s name, you see.” Mr. Lunsford’s dark brows rose above intent eyes commanding me to accept what he was implying.
“But that’s nonsense.”
“Try telling that to the curate, Mrs. Tyrell. Francis Pilkington is all the religion we have except once a month when the vicar pays the village a visit. And he seems set on believing the worst. We at Lunsford Hall are the newcomers, you see, less than two decades since my grandfather’s youngest brother won it at cards. We are, therefore, outsiders. And a family already plagued by ill luck—my brother drowned in a loch in Scotland, myself turned veritable monster, my sister-in-law and her mama disdainful of the locals, Nicholas anything but a pattern card of proper behavior. And most recently, a tutor and two governesses deserting us with such alacrity that there absolutely must be something wrong.” His gaze remained fixed on my face, as if for a few moments he had forgotten to hide himself from scrutiny. “In short, Mrs. Tyrell, I hope to prepare you for any odd events that might come your way, so you will be less likely to run off.” Somehow his distorted features twisted into what passed for a smile. “Believe me, I most sincerely hope you will stay with us. Any trouble, any doubts at all, do not hesitate to come to me. I will do my best to make things right.”
I believed him. Any misgivings I had were not for myself but for Chas. Yet even rain drumming relentlessly on the window could not convince me that danger lay within the walls of Lunsford Hall. This was a man I could trust, I was certain of it.
And how many women have gone to their doom, thinking exactly that? my inner voice chided.
Nonsense! I glanced at the timepiece, a family heirloom, pinned to the bodice of my gown and caught my breath. “Please excuse me, sir. It’s past time for lessons to begin.” I shoved back my chair, aware that he had risen with me, but I charged out the door without so much as pausing for a more polite farewell. However was I going to settle to teaching when my head was awhirl with Mr. Lunsford’s words?
And Mr. Lunsford.
History, language, globes, maths, sketching . . . history, language, globes, maths, sketching . . . I repeated my catechism up three flights of stairs, took a deep breath, summoned a smile, and opened the door to the nursery. My duties were about to begin.
At first glance the spacious nursery seemed empty, which was exceedingly odd as I had asked Josie to take Chas to the nursery by nine-fifteen, and it was well past that now. The light from windows on two sides might be dim today, but a number of candles encased in glass tubes were set on the study table, as well as on top of a storage cabinet and a book shelf nearby. Slates stood ready . . . but no boys. And no sign of Nurse Robbins.
My inexperience as a governess was clear. How foolish of me to expect them to be sitting there, feet on the floor, hands folded, waiting for me to appear. Nonetheless, I could not put down a slight rush of annoyance. Boys would be boys, but this was the first morning of their instruction, and Robbins, at least, should have known enough to have them ready and waiting.
With determined step I crossed the room to a closed door on my left. I flung it open . . . and forced back a scream of panic as I saw two knickered backsides bent double over the windowsill, feet off the floor, the backs of two heads—one dark, one light—hanging face down over the park four stories below. Nicholas’s hand rested on Chas’s back. My mouth opened to deliver a sharp reprimand . . . and snapped closed, trapping my horror and surge of fury inside. I steadied myself with one hand against the doorframe and said as softly and calmly as I could manage, “Chas, Nicholas, it is time for your lessons. Please come inside and close the window.”
A wiggle, a twist, and with the amazing agility of boys that age, they were both suddenly standing before me, Chas hangdog, well aware of his foolishness, Nicholas defiant, shoulders back, his customary sneer playing across his lips. Dear God, that hand on Chas’s back . . .
Experienced governess or no, I had not raised a boy to the age of eight without developing a certain bite of authority when the situation called for it. And this was certainly one of those times. “Nicholas,” I said, “please close the window. Both of you, take your seats at table immediately.” Without waiting to see how fast they moved, I stalked back to the far end of the schoolroom and took my time laying out the pages each was to read that morning. As I was doing so, Chas slunk into his chair, eyes downcast. Nicholas slumped down into his, legs outstretched, supreme indifference to anything I might say echoing from every pore.
Lovely.
“May I ask what has happened to Nurse Robbins?” I inquired.
“She likes to breakfast in the kitchen,” Nicholas informed me. “You were late and she was hungry. So she left us. Said we were old enough to manage on our own.”
“Which you clearly were not.” Ignoring the sparks of anger in his cat-like eyes, I delivered the lecture I had nearly blurted out while they were hanging so perilously out the window. Even Nicholas seemed to get the message as he gradually sat taller, put both feet on the floor, and allowed the defiant set of his shoulders to relax a trifle. A small victory, I had to admit, but it would have to do.
I had already sensed that Nurse Robbins would not be a friend, but what to do about this blatant disregard of her duties? Tell Mr. Lunsford, or let it go? Perhaps if I told her how I had found her charges . . .?
Did she care? Or had she deliberately left the boys alone, hoping that I was the one who would get the blame if they got up to mischief? I would, I decided, give her the benefit of the doubt. No sense making an outright enemy of the person who ruled the nursery.
Ninety minutes later, we paused for morning tea, which Peg brought on a tray, after a laborious climb all the way up from the kitchen. In reality, “tea” consisted of a pot of warm milk sweetened with sugar and perhaps a dash of tea for good measure. There was also a more than ample amount of biscuits, macaroons, fruit tarts, and fairy cakes designed to keep two ravenous boys from starving between the three more hearty meals of the day. Certainly far more than had ever been served in the Chastain nursery. It occurred to me that for all the adversity that beset him, Mr. Lunsford had not forgotten what it was like to be a growing boy. Strangely, not for a moment did I think that the generous bounty served in the nursery was due to the overindulgence of Nicholas’s mother or grandmother.
“Nurse Jenkins always prepared tea in the nursery kitchen, but Robbins doesn’t like to,” Nicholas offered, clearly hoping to stir up more mischief.
Keeping my expression bland, I asked, “How long has Nurse Robbins been with you?”
Nicholas cocked his head, considering the matter. “Six months or more,” he finally replied. “Since not long after the troubles began.”
“Troubles?” Chas inserted, blue eyes wide, hero-worship of the older boy all too apparent, even though they had only met the day before.
As Nicholas turned to him, his whole expression changed from the slightly bored façade of a nine-year-old forced to labor in the schoolroom to that of a ghoulish storyteller recounting tall tales on All Hallow’s Eve. “Oh, aye,” he whispered, his upper body leaning in until he was not more than six inches from Chas. “I’m the Demon Child, don’t you know? I fly like a witch, I cast spells, start fires, kill animals—”
“Nicholas! That is quite enough. Chas, he is funning you.”
“Oh no, I’m not,” Nicholas returned with surprising bitterness. �
�It doesn’t matter a whit if I’ve actually done it, you know, if everyone believes it to be true. The rumors made poor old Jenkins ill. Uncle retired her to a cottage near the village and hired Robbins in her place. Frankly,” Nicholas added, scowling, “I don’t think she’s a proper nurse, more of a jailer actually.”
Oh, Nicholas. I struggled for the right words, finally offering something woefully inadequate. But I had the satisfaction of feeling I was seeing the real Nicholas for the first time. Not the overly polite young man who had given us a tour of the park nor the naughty boy who had led my son to hang out a fourth-floor window with only his stomach to support him, but a sullen, frightened child who had fallen into deep water and didn’t know how to swim.
Then again . . . I thought of the hand poised on Chas’s back. Perfectly innocent or . . .
My hands were shaking as I gathered up the tea things and took them to the small room that served as the nursery kitchen. Once again, I wondered if in my eagerness to leave Kent we had escaped a villain of the most debauched variety only to fall into a situation far worse, an actual risk to my son’s life?
Chapter Six
To my somewhat uneasy relief, over the next few days our new life at Lunsford Hall settled into a routine unmarred by disturbances of any kind. Chas appeared to be adapting well to a new home and a new schoolroom, as Nicholas was to his new governess. Lady Kempton offered only occasional anxious strictures about her son, while Lady Hadley remained coolly distant. The servants were respectful, I’m happy to say, many greeting me with smiles, though I caught sidelong glances that left no doubt they were wondering how long it would be before this one took to her heels.
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 4
