“Thank you, Stebbins,” Lunsford said. “Please convey my thanks to Mrs. Allard and any others who were roused from their beds. And ask that they not speak of this matter to anyone.”
“Of course, sir.” Stebbins bowed himself out.
“I should have asked,” Lunsford said, “if you would prefer a different bedchamber?”
“Oh no, sir,” I returned with more pride than truth. “I am not that faint-hearted.”
“Very well.” He picked Chas up and limped toward the stairs while I struggled to restrain myself from repeating the suggestion that a footman be called to transport my son to his bed. Pride could be an abominable stumbling block to recognizing reality, but somehow I could not bring myself to prick Lunsford’s determination to be the man he thought he should be, the one without infirmity. I followed closely behind, ready to steady one or both if my employer’s leg suddenly gave way. Absurd thought! If he slipped, all three of us would tumble to the marble tiles below.
“You needn’t grit your teeth so loudly, Mrs. Tyrell,” Mr. Lunsford cast over his shoulder as we reached the top of the stairs. Mortified, I meekly followed him to my bedchamber, where he tucked Chas into his bed with all the efficiency of man long-accustomed to playing father. “And now,” he added as he closed the dressing room door behind us, “we need to talk.”
“At this hour?”
“Better now than having Cressida or Hesper questioning any lengthy chat between us in the morning.”
Dear God, yes! But I wasn’t at all certain I wanted to face the reality of where that bloody rat came from, though I tucked away the inadvertent gift of Lady Hadley’s Christian name.
I sat in the upholstered chair near the window where I kept my basket of mending, and Mr. Lunsford perched on the edge of the chaise longue, his solid form appearing remarkably out of place against such a dainty, feminine setting.
“I must tell you,” he said, “that this could be Nicholas’s work.”
“Surely not!” I wouldn’t believe it. “Why did you not send upstairs to see if he was in his bed?” I added in rush.
“Because he would have been sound asleep,” Mr. Lunsford replied with considerable patience, “or pretending to be. I assure you, disastrous pranks are something I have had to deal with before.”
“But we have been getting on so well,” I protested. “We have even begun to talk of Chas moving onto the nursery floor.”
For a few moments my employer studied his boots, before offering, “Nicholas is not called the Demon Child for nothing, Mrs. Tyrell. And I swear only the Devil himself knows what prompts him to do the things he does. Or,” he added more slowly, “the things he is accused of. It is entirely possible there is more wrong here than a spoiled, willful child.”
“He could not possibly have the lit the fire in the marsh,” I asserted. “He was safe and sound in his bed. I checked.”
“Agreed. I fear we have more than one culprit abroad..” Lunsford shook his dark head. “It could be someone taking advantage of the rumors, someone who wishes to make mischief for whatever mysterious reason. Or it could be something entirely unrelated to Nicholas and his erratic temperament.”
“Have other governesses experienced a rat in their beds?”
“No. Sticks and stones, a frog . . . alive, I might add. Nothing as appalling as what you encountered tonight.”
My hand clutched over my mouth, I turned toward the window that overlooked the marsh, but the draperies were now firmly closed, shutting out whatever odd sights might be seen on the vast watery wilderness. “But I was so certain Nicholas liked me,” I whispered, unable to shutter the agony in my voice.
“I believe he does,” Lunsford told me. “This may be some kind of test, a way for him to ascertain if you have a true interest in him, the sheer courage it takes to stick to your post and see the thing through.” A slight pause, and then he added, almost apologetically, “The others did not, you see. In the past ten months he has seen the backs of a tutor and two governesses. Why should you be any different?”
He was challenging me, blast him. Just as he challenged me to accept his disfigurement. The latter I felt I was doing rather well, but as for Nicholas . . .
“Well,” I pronounced in as decisive a manner as I could manage, “I am certainly not packing my bags and my son and running off in the dead of night. Let us see how things look in the morning. I will speak to Nicholas and see if I can get to the root of the matter.”
Mr. Lunsford hauled himself to his feet and favored me with a quirk of his lips that passed for a smile. “Bravo, Mrs. Tyrell. I was quite certain you were made of sterner stuff than your predecessors.” And for a moment—a mere flash of time—I thought I caught a gleam in his eyes that was solely masculine and appreciative, and had nothing to do with an uncle discussing his nephew with the governess.
I was so thoroughly startled and mortified by a sudden surge of long-forgotten emotions that Mr. Lunsford had exited the room, closing the door behind him, before I recovered my frozen wits. Impossible! But the last few hours had seen more changes in my situation at Lunsford Hall than discovering my charge might indeed be a demon child.
I took a final peak at Chas, who, thank the Lord, had slept through the entire crisis, and finally, with some trepidation, I admit, pulled back the covers on my bed, eyed the pristine sheets, and forced myself to climb in.
Tomorrow . . . Tomorrow I would talk to Nicholas.
Chapter Eight
Instead of attaching the antique cloisonné watch to the bodice of my gown the next morning, as was my custom, I laid it on a low table where Chas could easily see it, set a reading passage before him on which I promised to question him within the hour, and instructed him not to come up to the nursery until ten o’clock.
“What’s wrong, mama?” was his instant response, his face falling into the anxious look I hoped had been erased forever.
“Nothing,” I assured him, and then being quite unable to lie to him, I added a less unequivocal, “Nothing you need worry about. Merely something I wish to discuss with Nicholas in private.”
“Are you going to give him a scold?”
“Truthfully, I am not quite sure.”
Chas, evidently accepting that his mother was not omniscient, nodded. “Very well, Mama.” He promptly curled up in the upholstered chair set by the window and took up the book with the passage I had chosen for him to read.
Only as I reached the foot of the stairs to the nursery did it occur to me that Chas had all too readily assumed that Nicholas was due for a scold. What did he know that I did not? And once again I wondered if rather than providing my son with a place of safety, I had done him a grave disservice by coming to Lunsford Hall.
Nicholas was standing at a window looking out over the marsh, hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn around when he heard me enter. “Please be seated, Nicholas. I wish to talk with you.”
There was something about the way he turned and stalked to his seat . . . the defiant set of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head, the curl of his lip. He was only nine, for Heaven’s sake. He shouldn’t be like this! Bitter disappointment engulfed me. I did not want to believe it, but I very much feared he’d done it.
For several moments I simply looked down at the shock of brown hair topping a head that was facing stiffly forward, eyes seemingly fixed on an old rocking horse set against the far wall. Finally I slid into the low chair usually occupied by Chas, so I might be as close to level with Nicholas’s face as possible. How many scolds had he endured? I wondered. Scolds which had done not a jot of good.
Where to start? What to say?
“Nicholas,” I said at last, “if you wish to go away to school, why do you not just ask your uncle to make the arrangements? I am sure, if you really wish it, he can bring your mother to an understanding that you want to be with other boys.”
I received such an incredulous look that there could be no doubt I had erred. Badly. At least I had jarred Nicholas out
of his cold disdain.
“Leave Lunsford?” he declared, scorn distorting his finely sculpted features. “But why? I like it here.”
Time for a new tack. Governesses, like mothers, must be flexible. “Then you are going about it very badly,” I told him with considerably more asperity in my tone. “Frightening off your teachers is the best way I know to make sure your uncle sends you away.”
“He can’t. Mama won’t let him.”
“Your uncle is your guardian. Your mama may cry a flood and still he may do as he pleases.”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, a malevolent gleam lighting the odd yellow-green depths. “And you would lose your position, Mrs. Tyrell.”
“There are always households in need of a governess,” I returned imperturbably.
“Not governesses with a child. I heard mama and grandmama talking. They were quite shocked that my uncle took you on.” His face hovered on the verge of a triumphant smirk.
“Nicholas,” I snapped. “Did you put that rat in my bed?”
The almost-smirk broadened into a smile that stopped just short of being evil. A shiver struck me. Yet as much as I felt I was losing this battle, the truth was, Nicholas had given me a club to hang over him. For some reason he did not want to leave Lunsford Hall. And, repugnant as it was, that was information I might have to use against him in an effort to curb his behavior.
Or were we all wrong and school the best place for Nicholas? The hallowed halls of England’s finest schools were famous for taming the most spoiled and recalcitrant young aristocrats. Why should Nicholas, Viscount Kempton, be an exception?
Ha! my inner voice mocked. Within a week, Nicholas will find a way to have himself sent down.
All too true. Ah well . . . in for a penny, in for a pound. I stifled a sigh and asked, “Nicholas, do you know anything about the odd events in the neighborhood? Mysterious lights? Fires? A gutted cat in the garden, a dog on the church steps?”
Something sly slithered across his handsome, boyish face, and then he was all wide-eyed innocence, nothing more than a schoolboy confined to a classroom when he would rather be outside. “I am hedged about by jailers, Mrs. Tyrell,” he responded loftily. “How could I possibly be involved in such mischief?”
The door opened and Chas peered in, examining our faces to see if he dared enter. Blast Nicholas for putting fear back on my son’s face!
He’s a boy. A child. This can be fixed.
But how? I waved Chas into the room and set both boys to their lessons. While they worked, I made plans that ranged far from the schoolroom. This afternoon was my half-day. I would, I determined, use it to visit Nurse Jenkins in the village. Not that she, poor soul, had been able to handle Nicholas, but perhaps she might have advice which could be helpful—if nothing more than some idea of how and why Nicholas had become the Demon Child.
Which Lord Kempton most certainly was not, his mother informed me with asperity that evening before dinner. How dare I question her child about such an unspeakable act?
And where had she heard about the rat? I wondered, for I was nearly certain Nicholas would never mention the matter to his mother. Nurse Robbins? Very likely, I decided grimly.
“Cressida,” Lady Hadley inserted, “you know quite well Nicholas is not the angel you persist in thinking him to be.”
“He is but high-spirited, mama. I pray you, do not be absurd! No child of mine would lower himself to touch a rat.”
Not having the proper mind-set for a governess, I opened my mouth for a sharp rebuttal, only to be outflanked by a sharply masculine, “Do not be nonsensical, Cressida. The boy has admitted it.”
I suspect my mouth dropped open at Mr. Lunsford’s sudden defense. Nor had I any notion he had spoken with Nicholas.
“I would give him a good caning,” Lunsford continued, “but I fear it would only make him more resentful. We are fortunate Mrs. Tyrell is not now packing her bags. I still have hope that, with time and proper encouragement, Nicholas will return to being the boy we once knew.” Lunsford’s frightening features softened as he spoke directly to his sister-in-law. “But at the moment, Cressida, you must face the fact that Nicholas is out of hand. Has he done all the things being attributed to him? I sincerely doubt it. But he is guilty of enough of them that strong measures must be taken. So do not fly up into the boughs with Mrs. Tyrell. She has enough to contend with, as it is.”
Lady Kempton stepped back, eyes wide with shock. She cast a quick glance at her mother, who stood, stern and erect, offering no support. An anguished look in my direction, and then she sank into a chair, head in her hands. “No,” she moaned. “You are all wrong, I know it.”
“Good Lord, child, you haven’t the sense God gave a goose!” Lady Hadley cried, clearly at the end of her patience.
In all fairness, I had to wonder how I would feel if I were told Chas had put a bloody rat in someone’s bed. I knelt by Lady Kempton’s chair and said, “We will find a way to make things better, my lady, truly we will. Nicholas is highly intelligent, and I am certain there is a great deal of good in him. I know how easy it is for a high-spirited boy to go astray, and we will fix this, I promise you.”
Idiot! How can you promise such a doubtful conclusion?
Ignoring my better judgment, I quite daringly touched Lady Kempton’s hand. “Please, my lady, let us go in to dinner and speak of happier things. Did I not hear something about a dinner party at Sir Basil’s on Saturday eve?”
She sniffed, raising her head to reveal a tentative, though watery, smile. “Indeed, yes. I quite look forward to getting out of this house!” She shot a venomous look at Mr. Lunsford.
“Come, Cressida,” her mother commanded. “Cease being such a ninnyhammer. Stebbins has announced dinner.”
I have to admit my hands were still shaking as I picked up my napkin and placed it in my lap. Truthfully, I had not the slightest idea how to deal with a child like Nicholas. And I admit, however unworthy the thought might be, to being more than a trifle disappointed that Lunsford did not think a good caning would help.
Chapter Nine
I had planned to spend my first half-day with Chas on an exploratory walk to the village, but necessity demanded a different use of my free time. After a quiet talk with Amos, who assured me he would keep close watch over the boys’ outside activities, I put on my bonnet and set off for the cottage of Nurse Jenkins. The short-cut to the village, I’d been told, was a zigzag path along a series of drainage ditches that would take me to the village in a journey of little over a mile, as opposed to three miles by road. The first part of my walk, however, was along the bank of the broad canal just east of the Hall, which was three or four times the width of the other drainage ditches criss-crossing the land. I suspected it was a natural stream whose course had been straightened over the years as an aid to easy plowing.
My speculation was further confirmed by the visible, if gentle, flow of water moving toward the marsh. Most ditches, I discovered, were dark and still, rising and falling with the tide as if moved by an unseen hand. But this one . . . I looked more closely at the broad expanse and frowned. How very odd. The water seemed to be flowing inland, kicking up riffles here and there as the inexorable tide met the flow of water from off the land. Remarkable. All those years in Kent, yet I had not encountered this phenomenon before. Not that we’d lived by the sea, but no one who lived on an island—no matter one as large as Britain—should be unaware of the ebb and flow of the tide.
I walked on, following Mrs. Allard’s instructions to turn left at the first cross-ditch. Sun drenched the fields of still-green grain around me. Insects hummed, birds twittered in the branches of a sprinkling of trees, while seagulls swooped overhead, their raucous cries piercing the stillness of a lazy summer afternoon. Each short bridge over the cross-ditches was slightly different, as if some earlier craftsman had made an effort to be artistic as well as practical in his designs. The temperature was warm, but not overly so. In short, the beauty of the day enveloped me. F
reedom called. I reveled in my first exploration outside the immediate grounds of Lunsford Hall.
Because the land was so flat, I was not more than half the distance to the village when the church steeple took shape before me, a beacon beckoning me on my way. In spite of my errand, my spirits lightened. How could anyone be unhappy on such a glorious day?
Still following directions provided by Mrs. Allard, I had little difficulty finding the modest cottage provided to Nurse Jenkins upon her retirement. “At the edge of the village but still on Lunsford land,” she had told me. “Just look for the geraniums, Mrs. Tyrell. Nurse Jenkins’s cottage fair overflows with them.”
And she was right. Fat blossoms of red and pink spilled from window boxes, hung from pots, and edged each side of the pebbled front walkway. Oh my goodness, the poor woman must have substituted caring for geraniums in place of caring for Lunsford children. I trusted the flowers were not as obstreperous as Nicholas. Clearly, they thrived under her care.
As should any child, I decided when I met her. Nurse Jenkins was a remarkably spry white-haired woman of close to seventy, I guessed, the kind of faithful retainer every family hopes to have in their employ. Her eyes were bright, her smile gracious as I explained who I was and why I had arrived, unannounced, on her doorstep.
“Good gracious, child, come in, come in. I am delighted you’ve come to visit me.” After bidding me be seated in a comfortable chair, she scurried about, making tea, before setting herself down and declaring, “Now tell me how you go on at the Hall. How is Nicholas and my dear Master Jason?” She beamed an expectant smile in my direction.
Master Jason. It took me a moment to realize whom she meant. “You were nurse to Mr. Lunsford?” I asked.
“Oh, indeed, Mrs. Tyrell. “And to his poor brother as well, Master Nicholas’s father, the late viscount. Such larks they got up to, but not an ounce of vice in either of them. Good lads!” She paused, sorrow shadowing her pleasant round face. “And then dear Ned drowned, and poor Mr. Jason came home with such grievous injuries. And now . . .” Her voice trailed to a whisper as she added, “Sometimes it seems like a curse has come over the family. Though I’m sure I don’t know why, for better people than the Lunsford you’ll not find anywhere.”
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 6
