I admit I watched Nicholas closely, both in the schoolroom and during our outdoor activities, but other than being autocratic, spoiled, and frequently lazy, with a tongue far too sharp for his years, I could find no fault with him, no further reason for the epithet Demon Child. On my third day at the Hall, Mr. Lunsford informed me that I need not accompany Nicholas on outdoor excursions that were not part of his studies. After several incidents where he had strayed out of the park, disappearing for hours and throwing the entire household into a tizzy, a footman had been assigned to accompany Nicholas when he roamed the grounds. The addition of Chas to his duties would not be a burden. Amos, I was assured, could be trusted to keep both boys out of mischief, giving me time to plan their studies and activities for the following day.
After two days of careful observation—for I had reason to suspect any man in close contact with my child—I gave in and entrusted the boys to Amos’s care. His appearance was reassuring. Young and sturdy, he had light brown hair, clear gray eyes, and a ready smile. And something about the confident stance of his shoulders, or perhaps the intelligence behind those sharp eyes, told me a will of iron lurked behind his easy-going exterior. Mr. Lunsford had chosen well. With no more than a last lingering qualm, I turned the boys over to Amos and went up to my room to do some much-deferred mending, a task far easier by daylight than by candlelight. By the time the boys returned hours later, the sound of their boisterous feet, their overly loud chatter, brought a smile to my lips. The sense of impending doom that had lurked in the shadows since the woman in the coach had hissed, “Demon Child,” began to dissipate, wafting away on the fresh breeze pouring in through my open windows. The whispers in the neighborhood were absurd. As were my fears. Nicholas was merely difficult, a bit worse than most boys his age but not totally unmanageable. And certainly not evil. I was a match for him, I was certain of it.
I was smiling ruefully at my own vast conceit when Chas burst into the room to tell me he was going to have nursery tea with Nicholas. Tears misted my eyes at the sound of his pounding feet racing back toward the staircase, gradually faded to nothing. The whispers, the warnings, were much ado about nothing. Our sojourn at Lunsford Hall was going to be everything I had hoped for—safety, respite . . . a place where Chas could have an exemplary example of an adult male in his life.
Really? I was so shocked by this unexpected thought that the breeches I was mending dropped to the floor. I left them there, my hands clutched in my lap, as I gazed out the window toward the infinite expanse of Fenley Marsh. In our frantic flight from Kent, my last requirement for employment would have been an establishment with an adult male, particularly an unmarried adult male. And yet . . . in a mere five days I had come to think of Mr. Lunsford—Mr. Jason Lunsford—as exemplary. Astonishing! I searched my mind for some reason for this phenomenon.
Certainly, I no longer saw his deformity—well, that might be an exaggeration, but it no longer struck my eyes with horrifying impact. He spoke to me with respect. He aided in his nephew’s education. He did not seem to chafe under the burden of housing his sister-in-law and her mother, in spite of the way they did their best to ignore him. His servants respected him, that was apparent, and his choice of Amos to shepherd the boys seemed positively inspired. He was even managing a few bits of conversation at the dinner table.
He had been honest, warning me of the troubles which seemed to center around Lunsford Hall. Around himself. And Nicholas.
Which meant . . . I was being overly optimistic. Mr. Lunsford was far too stable to warn me of problems that did not exist.
Unless . . .
It was a nasty little secret, only occasionally whispered of, that some men who went to war came back damaged in ways that could not be seen.
Impossible! Not Jason Lunsford, cried a secret voice inside my head—though certainly not the sturdy common sense that customarily mocked my more sentimental thoughts.
But with injuries that grievous, I countered stubbornly, would not the mind be damaged as well?
The gong that indicated it was time to dress for dinner echoed up the stairs. More than ready for the interruption, I picked up Chas’s breeches, the rent still gaping open, and set it on the back of the chair to be completed that evening. I could not help making a face as I looked at the two evening gowns hanging from pegs in the dressing room—both drab, long-out-of-style, and acquired in that used-clothing shop in Petticoat Lane in London. They were gowns I had deemed suitable for a governess who might dine with the family only on rare occasions. But now . . . perhaps it was time I sent for the trunk of my own garments, currently stored in my godmother’s attic . . .
Vanity, vanity . . . Miranda, thy name is vanity.
I wrinkled my nose as I slipped the nondescript gown of gray bombazine over my head. I had added a white lace fichu and cuffs to this one too, but the effect was not at all what I could like. Besides, in my five days in Lincolnshire, this was the gown’s third wearing. “C’est affreux!” as my old governess would have said. Yes, it was time I sent for the clothing of Mrs. Avery Tyrell of Kent.
I doubted Lady Kempton and Lady Hadley would like it. But, after all, it wasn’t their opinion that mattered.
I wrote to godmama that very night, even before finishing the laborious task of weaving fine stitches to cover the hole Chas had managed to tear on one of his outings with Amos. Not that I blamed the good-natured footman for allowing the boys to climb a modest-sized tree, evidently an acceptable activity at Lunsford Hall. I even attempted to understand the jumbled explanation that a branch had mysteriously reached out and snagged Chas’s breeches in passing, requiring a sharp pull to loosen it, and then another and another, until the fabric gave way and allowed him to climb all the way to the top. Well . . . almost to the top. A capital view, Mama. Truly it was! Further interrogation revealed the only reason Chas was not at the very top was that Nicholas was there before him. A feat that added even more admiration to my son’s view of his new schoolmate.
Dear God, how did mothers survive the raising of sons?
After tiptoeing into the dressing room to lay out the mended breeches for wear the next day, I crossed to the south windows of my bedchamber, flexing fingers cramped by so many intricate stitches, and peered out into the night. What I expected to see I don’t know, for the moon was but a slim crescent—perhaps I sought the calm of the black nothingness of the marsh. Certainly not what I saw.
I blinked, looked again. From what appeared to be the center of the marsh flames rose high. Even from this distance they seemed to dance and leap, reaching for the sky, defying the blackness of the night. Fascinated, I kept watch until the flames fell back to wherever they’d come from . . . until the last red glow faded into the black of night. The “Demon” had struck again.
An eerie sight, but I never for one moment suspected anything but a human hand lit that fire. I had been raised in a staunch Church of England household where demons were not tolerated. Clearly, someone was determined to cause mischief for Lunsford Hall, and doing rather a good job of it. I also knew that, however it was managed, the fire was not the work of a nine-year-old boy who was undoubtedly fast asleep in his bed. So how . . .
A flat-bottomed boat and a raft, I speculated, the latter piled high with faggots, perhaps some hay. Rope the raft to the stern of the boat. Tow it to the center of the marsh, light the fire, loose the burning raft, escape in the boat. Quite simple, and not in the least supernatural.
Avery had sometimes complained that my outlook on life was too prosaic, that it was a wonder he had ever persuaded me to run off with him. Which wasn’t really true. I had been a high-spirited girl of imagination who chafed at the bit, longing for the independence granted to young men my age. After years under the strict rule of a father whose idea of propriety rested somewhere in the realm of angels, running off to set up my own household with an indulgent husband had been inevitable.
I winced, admitting with some reluctance that the near decade since had done little to
tame my head-strong ways. How else had I come to abandon a secure home in Kent for the lowly position of governess in the wilds of Lincolnshire? Before dropping the drapery back into place, I took a last look at the now undisturbed night, my lips puckering into a wry grimace. Well, my darling Avery, it appears I am going to need all the common sense I can muster if Chas and I are to find peace at Lunsford Hall.
On Sunday morning Chas and I were squeezed into the carriage taking Lady Kempton, Lady Hadley, and Nicholas to church. Mr. Lunsford, I was informed, did not attend. And no wonder, poor man. I had no difficulty imagining the peering eyes, the whispers, the fear . . . What a frightful come-down for a dashing cavalry officer, a major, Mrs. Allard had informed me, pride and admiration in every syllable. So why could the villagers not see him in the same light?
A mystery that had become more clear by the end of the morning.
Before the service our pew was the cynosure of all eyes, some blatantly staring at the newcomers—Chas and myself—while others cast fearful, sidelong glances at Nicholas. I even saw one old woman and a girl of perhaps fourteen who went so far as to point two fingers in the ancient sign intended to ward off the Devil. Nor did the curate, Mr. Francis Pilkington—supposedly a man devoted to the teachings of the New Testament—alleviate our plight. In fact, he seemed to exacerbate the situation by casting repeated inimical looks in our direction. And when I shook his hand at the door after the service, I very much feared I saw the light of a martyr shining from his eyes.
Surely he could not actually believe Nicholas, Viscount Kempton, was a demon child?
My thoughts were dragged away from this dilemma by an introduction to Sir Basil Quimby, Lady Kempton’s particular friend, about whom talk raged below stairs at Lunsford Hall. Though compared to my Avery, or even to the man Mr. Lunsford must once have been, I could not see what all the fuss was about. Then again, I had to admit he had the town bronze, as well as the title, that would appeal to Lady Kempton. Nicely turned out in a coat, pantaloons, cravat, and boots that might have graced St. George’s in Hanover Square, Sir Basil was clearly a man who kept his eye on London fashion. Handsome enough, I granted, with a slim figure and fashionably short brown hair, but there was something about him that made me uneasy. He was, perhaps, too friendly, his smile too knowing, his fingers lingering too long in mine as we shook hands. Yet he ran tame, as the saying goes, at Lunsford Hall, a great favorite with Lady Kempton and her mother. According to kitchen gossip, a betrothal announcement was expected at any moment. Josie, in an aside to me, had hinted that the servants felt it was only Sir Basil’s wariness of Nicholas that kept him from making an offer.
Silly toad.
I could not possibly have thought that! Sir Basil Quimby appeared to be a most proper gentleman, who would never be put off by such a consideration as an obstreperous child. And besides, I knew quite well gossip should never to be taken seriously. It was all a hum, it had to be.
Not the tales Jason Lunsford told you. Those tales you’d better believe.
Scaremonger!
Are you blind? Did you not see the looks from the congregation?
I returned to Lunsford Hall in a particularly thoughtful mood. Somewhere in this quiet green corner of Lincolnshire there was evil, though I certainly could not pinpoint the source. That it was Nicholas I dismissed. I simply would not believe it. He had most certainly not been lighting a fire in the marsh a few nights ago, a feat I considered well beyond the capabilities of even a highly intelligent child like Nicholas. But as part of my crusade to refute the wild rumors, I had climbed the stairs to the nursery that night and checked. Nicholas had been sound asleep in his bed.
The remainder of Sunday passed peacefully enough, and it was only later as I brushed out my hair and braided it for the night that all the problems at Lunsford Hall came rushing back at me. No, I would not dwell on them at the moment or I’d toss and turn half the night. With determined step I pulled back the coverlet, and . . .
Screamed. Once, and not loudly, for hysteria is not in my nature. Yet somehow I was across the room, my back against the window, without recalling how I got there. Mouth gaping, I stared at my bed. My bloody bed where the gutted body of an enormous rat lay stretched amidst a pool of red.
Chapter Seven
After long moments of immobility, I gasped for air, suddenly realizing my lungs had been as frozen as the rest of me. With my back to the wall, I scuttled toward the door, never taking my eyes off the awful thing on the bed, as if I expected at any moment it would rise from the dead and charge straight at me. Nonsensical, I knew, but my much-vaunted common sense seemed to have flown out the open window, dissipating on the night breeze.
When I reached the door, I suddenly came back to life, bursting out of my room, heedless of my nightwear and bare feet, running down the corridor, down the stairs, into the bookroom as if all the demons of Hell were after me. Where I stood, shocked into silence, by the perfectly horrid thought that I had left Chas alone with that thing. Oh yes indeed. I had run for the comfort of Jason Lunsford’s support, leaving my child to wake up and find . . .
Eyes wide, hands over my mouth, I stood there and shook as guilt overwhelmed me. I. Left. Chas. Alone.
With a gutted rat.
Strong hands grabbed both my arms. “Tell me!” Lunsford snapped. “What has happened?”
“Upstairs,” I managed. “Chas . . . I must go back.”
I was amazed how fast Lunsford could move in an emergency. We were almost instantly climbing the stairs, while he kept one hand firmly affixed to my arm. Candlelight shone through my doorway, which was gaping open. Shaking off my employer’s hand, I dashed into the dressing room, only to find Chas sleeping peacefully, his young face so beautiful, innocent, and safe that tears rushed to my eyes. Fearing a kiss would wake him, I settled for pulling his coverlet an inch higher, and tiptoed out, softly closing the door behind me.
Lunsford was standing with his back to the bed, clearly waiting for me. “You can’t leave him here,” he said. “I’ll summon Mrs. Allard, and while the room is readied, we can wait downstairs. Get the boy’s robe and slippers, your own as well.” There was no mistaking the bite of command, and I welcomed it. My wits were far from steady.
I protested, however, when Lunsford scooped Chas out of bed himself instead of waiting for a footman, but he gave me such a look I swallowed my words. He could, and would, carry Chas himself. Miraculously, after a descent of the stairs that had my heart in my mouth, Lunsford settled Chas on the leather sofa in the bookroom and promptly embarked on a flurry of activity that seemed to rouse half the household. When he returned, he poured out two brandies and motioned for me to join him in one of two barrel chairs set next to an open window. Still smarting from the guilt of deserting my child in a moment of crisis—had I really run to Lunsford, leaving Chas with a mutilated rat?—I moved slowly, reluctantly to the indicated seat.
I sat, accepted the glass, took a sip. And choked.
“Not a brandy toper, Mrs. Tyrell?” And he smiled. How dare he? “Drink it, nonetheless. It’s the traditional cure for shock.” I took another sip, this time managing to get it down with nothing worse than a face screwed up in disgust.
Lunsford turned a thoughtful gaze toward Chas before saying, “There are matters we need to discuss, but not with boy in the room. So what innocuous topic shall I suggest?” My eyes went wide as he downed the entire contents of the nasty stuff in his glass in one swallow. “Ah, that’s better,” he declared. “Now let me see . . .” He was careful, I noted to keep his face averted, turning into the shadows with the candlelight to his back. “I would, I believe, like to know more about you, Mrs. Tyrell, something of the years you spent in Kent.”
Merciful heavens, why? What right had he to pry into my past?
Every right, of course. I was now in charge of his nephew’s education and deportment. “Surely what you read in the characters I presented told you all you needed to know, Mr. Lunsford.”
“Such gl
owing characters,” he murmured, not bothering to disguise a hint of mockery. “Truly superlative, Mrs. Tyrell. Clearly, you were a lady of some substance in village life and never previously employed in someone else’s household. I cannot help but wonder what could possibly have sent you in search of a position as governess, particularly when you were a widow with a child.”
It was clear I was going to have to offer the story I had so carefully invented, with meticulous inclusion of partial truths. I assumed a look of bland innocence and said, “My husband and I angered both our families when we married, Mr. Lunsford, each of us having been destined for more grand connections. For our defiance, we were cut off without a penny, solely dependent upon a modest annuity my husband had from his grandmother and the largesse of a maiden aunt with whom we lived for several years before her passing put us in possession of her home in Kent. But it is a small property—we lived as gentry, yes, but very modestly, and my husband’s annuity ceased upon his death.”
Lunsford, his face lost in shadow, remained perfectly still, but I had the impression he was listening intently.
“It became apparent in recent years that if Chas was to have the education my husband and I wished for him, more income was needed. The only thing I could think of was to lease the property and earn our keep elsewhere until I had accumulated enough funds for proper schooling.”
Turning toward me with what I could see was considerable reluctance, Mr. Lunsford asked, “Surely there must have been someone in your families willing to help?”
“I did not ask.” I held my head high, my Chastain pride surging to the fore. “Believe me, the estrangement on both sides was insurmountable.”
Fortunately, we were interrupted at that point by Stebbins informing us that my bedchamber was ready, for I am not at all certain where the conversation might have gone from there. Closer questioning could have proved awkward.
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 5
