Delia’s breath caught. Her instinct screamed for her to get involved. But she waited.
The guardian’s steady, deep voice echoed from the painted walls. “I don’t know how things were handled at Easten Park, but in Penwythe Hall young men wait to be dismissed.”
“I don’t need to do what you say.” Liam’s tight words slid through gritted teeth, his stormy stare fixed firmly on his uncle. “You are not my father.”
* * *
Jac returned the boy’s heated glare. The surprising force behind the youth’s outburst caught him off guard. Jac stepped forward, his focus steady. “No, I’m not your father, but I’ll not tolerate disrespect, and I doubt he would have either.”
“What do you know of my father and what he would have done?” Liam’s shout cracked, and moisture glistened in his eyes.
Heat rose above Jac’s cravat, but it wasn’t from anger. Yes, he had a right to be outraged at the disrespectful display, but when he looked at Liam, all he could see was Randall. The sight tore at him. “You must trust me.”
“Why should I trust you?” The boy hurled each word faster, angrier than the last. “I know what you did to my father. We all do. I’m not a child anymore, or perhaps you can’t tell. I understood what was happening then, just as I understand what you are trying to do now.”
From the corner of his eye, Jac saw the governess step forward. He held out his hand to stop her. “It’s all right, Mrs. Greythorne. Liam has something to say to me. Let him say it.”
Liam flicked his glance over at his governess, widened his stance, and licked his lips. Jac knew this look—a look of triumph. A look of opportunity.
“You stole this from my father.” Liam flung his arm to indicate the room. “All of this. Penwythe Hall. My father was older than you. It should have belonged to him. And now it should belong to me.”
A jolt of frustration seared through Jac. His patience grew thin at the accusation, for he could hear Randall’s voice, strong and clear, in the boy’s words. “The property was not entailed, Liam. Age did not factor into my uncle’s decision. Sometimes, whether we like it or not, things do not happen the way we think they should.”
“We shouldn’t be here.” A tear escaped the boy’s thick lashes, chased by a sob. “We should be with Aunt Beatrice in London.”
Jac glanced over at the other children. They were all watching with eyes wide. Faces pale. None moved a muscle. He lifted his gaze to the Collivers. He’d almost forgotten they were here, and now they bore witness to an intense, personal family moment. Richard Colliver’s drawn brows and Mrs. Colliver’s expression of horror indicated that it would not soon be forgotten.
With crushing weight, Jac realized that this arrangement would be much more challenging than he’d originally anticipated. He’d foolishly assumed that he’d provide a roof over their heads and see that they were protected and cared for and all would be well, but already, raging emotions were pouring through the cracks of the plan.
Wanting to put the children at ease, Jac softened his tone. “Just like my uncle had reasons for leaving Penwythe to me instead of your father, your father had a reason for sending you here. I don’t know why, but I do promise I’ll do my part to make this transition smooth. I can’t do that alone, though. It will take all of us working together.” Jac turned to face the rest of the children. “Do we need to discuss anything else? It will be a lot easier for us to move forward if we speak plainly.”
“Can we go to the sea tomorrow?” Sophy chirped, as if no argument had just transpired.
“What?” Jac blinked, taken aback at the jarring change of topic. “Um, not tomorrow.”
“When?” she persisted.
“Soon.” Jac nodded to Liam. “You may be excused.”
The youth turned on his heel, his boots smacking against the polished floor with each step.
For several moments no one moved.
Then Mrs. Greythorne stepped forward with haste. “Please excuse him, Mr. Twethewey. It’s been a—”
“No excuses are necessary, Mrs. Greythorne, but if you would be so kind, please return the children to their tasks and then join me in my study. And bring Mr. Simon with you.”
Chapter 11
Delia chewed her lower lip as she paced Mr. Twethewey’s study. Nearly an hour had lapsed since Liam’s outburst, but her heart pattered as if it had been just moments ago.
Mr. Simon leaned his hip against the side table against the far wall, a nonchalant smirk creasing his face. “I don’t know why you look so nervous. You’re prancing about as if you’ve done something wrong.”
Delia cast him a glance of annoyance before turning and pacing the narrow space once more, her pale-gray muslin skirt swishing with each step. “You weren’t there. If only you’d heard Liam. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
She paused at the small looking glass hanging on the dark wall, brushed a speck of dust from her shoulder, and smoothed a wayward lock of dark hair into place. Curiously, her eyes drifted to the reflection of the room behind her—the private quarters of the man who was now very influential in her life, whether she wanted him to be or not.
“Will you stop fussing about with your hair? It looks fine.” Mr. Simon glanced up from the newspaper he was holding. “And don’t fret about Liam. It’ll be forgotten in no time. He’s just unsettled. Aren’t we all?”
“This was more than unsettled.” Delia turned from the looking glass, frustrated that Mr. Simon regarded his pupil’s behavior with so little interest. “It was anger, raw and real.”
Mr. Simon shrugged and raised his hand, as if declaring innocence. “He’s a child. His anger will subside. This situation is new for him. It will take getting used to, ’tis all.”
“Will you take this seriously?” She narrowed her gaze. “If this arrangement is to be successful, the children must develop a good relationship with their uncle. Furthermore, it’s imperative that both you and I have a good working relationship with Mr. Twethewey.”
“Why? He can’t dismiss us from our positions. Only Mr. Steerhead can do that.” He took one look at her and sighed. “You’re reading too much into this. Besides, I can’t imagine Mr. Twethewey is terribly interested in having much of a relationship with the children or us anyway. I spoke with the butler, and from what I can gather, his sights are fixed firmly on the success of his orchards and cider press and very little else. Mark my words. The master will keep to his business and leave us with the children. ’Tis the way these men usually operate.”
A booming voice sounded from the door. “The way what men usually operate?”
Delia whirled around as the door to the study creaked open. Mr. Twethewey stood in the threshold, his expression cool, his brows raised in question.
Her heart pounded, and she stifled an inward groan. Not only had Liam shouted at him, but now she and Mr. Simon had been caught discussing his personal affairs.
Mr. Twethewey strode past them to his desk, leaving the scent of sandalwood in his wake.
Mr. Simon returned the newspaper he’d been reading back to the side table and straightened. “Forgive us for speaking so plainly about your personal business, but we are all coming to terms with our new arrangement. The children—especially Liam—seem to be having a hard time grappling with it.”
“Clearly.”
Feeling the need to defend Liam’s behavior, Delia stepped forward. “Be that as it may, allow me to assure you, Mr. Twethewey, that the children are not prone to such outbursts.”
“I’m not angry about the outburst. In fact, I understand. Liam seems a passionate boy, like his father was.” Mr. Twethewey did not look at her. Instead, he picked up a piece of paper and read it, his eyes never straying in their direction. His expression remained stoic and alarmingly indifferent.
She needed to make him understand. She gripped the back of the chair in front of her. “He is, but there is a great deal of his mother in him too. They are all quite different, the children, that is, one to the next
.”
Mr. Twethewey moved and stood next to the window, the light from which fell upon his black hair and broad shoulders. For the first time she noticed shadowed circles beneath his eyes. She was struck by how much younger he looked than his brother. Yes, with his cleft chin and vibrant blue eyes, he did resemble Randall Twethewey, but he possessed none of the fine lines around his mouth or eyes.
Mr. Twethewey motioned for them to be seated. Delia did as she was bid, her nerves twisting within her. Dozens of questions swirled in her mind. Why was his manner so aloof? Was he grieving his brother? Or was he merely disinterested? She folded her hands in her lap. His disposition—and the reasons behind it—was not her concern.
Finally Mr. Twethewey turned from the window and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ll be frank. I, regrettably, know very little about my nieces and nephews. As I told Liam earlier, I don’t know why Randall chose to send the children here. I’m as surprised as anyone. No doubt you have heard the story of our past, and if not, there are many who’d willingly share it with you. I’ll not dredge up the details. The children are here now and they are welcome, but to make this arrangement work, I need your help.”
Her breath hitched a little as she released it. “Of course. Mr. Simon and I will do whatever’s necessary to ensure the children adjust as well as possible. Won’t we, Mr. Simon?”
He only nodded.
“I will ask you to keep me abreast of how they are doing—if they need anything. Want for anything. Mrs. Bishop and Mr. Andrews are at your disposal and will see to whatever you require. The children may make themselves at home here. The grounds, the stables, everything is theirs to explore.”
“I know Sophy is eager to see the sea,” she said with a little laugh, hoping to lighten the mood.
He did not smile but merely offered a curt nod. “Yes, she has mentioned that several times. It’s about a mile from here. Not a long walk, but it can be a bit tricky at times. The road leading north from the walled garden will take you right to it. I’d rather the children wait for me to accompany them the first trip, and it would be best to take a carriage. The terrain changes quickly once you are past the orchards, and it becomes rocky and a bit dangerous.”
The mantel clock struck the hour, and he glanced at his pocket watch, as if mistrusting the chime. “I must be going. I know the children are in mourning and have had a busy few days, but I think it important that they come to church tomorrow and at least see the village.”
“Of course.”
“It’s about a twenty-minute walk, so please have them dressed accordingly.” Mr. Twethewey reached for a satchel slung over the desk chair, preparing to quit the chamber.
She started, a bit surprised. That was it? All he was going to say? No reprimand for what had happened with Liam? She wasn’t sure what she had thought the conversation would entail, but this couldn’t really be it.
More needed to be said, and she couldn’t allow this opportunity to pass without saying it, especially if Mr. Simon was going to remain so silent. She stood abruptly. “Mr. Twethewey?”
He stopped and lifted his face. His blue eyes were startling, the intensity of which threatened to make her forget what she was going to say. “Yes, Miss Greythorne?”
“It’s Mrs. Greythorne, actually.” She lifted her chin with an intake of breath. “Might I make a recommendation?”
“My apologies, Mrs. Greythorne.” He lowered the satchel to the desk. “What is it?”
“The children. They are such good children, and normally so happy. They loved their father very much. They adored him, really, and this has all been rather heartbreaking.” At the risk of rambling, she rushed her words to make her point. “I do hope you will spend time with them, sir. Endeavor to know them. This must be a shock to your routine as well as theirs, but all children are frightened of the unknown. Perhaps becoming better acquainted with you would ease the transition—for all of you.”
At first he did not respond, leaving her to wonder if she had overstepped her bounds.
Something flashed in his eyes, but his expression gave no hint as to what. He was a difficult man to read. Was he ever going to respond to her?
He diverted his gaze, picked up the satchel again, and hoisted it over his shoulder. “Thank you, Mrs. Greythorne. I shall bear that in mind.”
* * *
Mr. Simon’s pace as he stomped from the study through the entrance hall matched the impatience tightening his face. Delia nearly had to jog to keep up with him.
“Will you slow down?” she hissed, careful not to be heard by the servants polishing the adjacent staircase banister.
He did not slow his steps.
“I don’t understand why you’re so out of sorts.”
“I don’t like him.” Mr. Simon’s voice boomed. “I don’t like anything about this.”
Delia gritted her teeth, forcing her words to remain low. “Nobody likes what has happened, but give it time. You’ll adjust. We all will. It’s not even been a day.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You’d better make the best of it.” She scurried to match his stride, wishing she could make him stop. “The children will look to you, to us, to know how to handle this.”
From the corner of her eye, Delia spied Mrs. Bishop at the corridor’s edge and slowed her steps. “You go ahead. I’ll be up in a few moments.”
As Delia left Mr. Simon’s side and approached Mrs. Bishop, the older woman’s posture straightened. She said something to the maid by her side before shooing the girl away and giving Delia her full attention. “Mrs. Greythorne. Is there something you need?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” Delia’s voice faltered as she organized her thoughts, shifting her mind from the frustrating previous conversation and forcing herself to calm down. Normally she had little trouble giving instructions to staff, given her elevated position as a governess and prior to that mistress of her own household. But the woman’s pinched expression gave Delia reason to pause.
She did not imagine the woman—or any of the staff—was pleased with suddenly being tasked with the cleaning of an entire wing or tending to a great number of guests, and yet if she were to follow Mr. Twethewey’s directions, she needed to set a precedent right away. “The girls are in need of new gowns, so I’m in need of a reliable seamstress. Is there someone in the village you would recommend?”
Mrs. Bishop’s gaze fell to assess Delia’s simple gray gown before she folded her hands primly before her. “I’m afraid you would be disappointed by the seamstresses in Braewyn. I am sure no one would be up to the standards of the mantua makers the young ladies are used to.”
Delia stiffened her spine at the cool, unhelpful nature of Mrs. Bishop’s tone. She’d hoped that she might be able to find an ally in the housekeeper, but the narrowness of her gaze and the firm set of her thin lips told her otherwise.
Delia lifted her chin. “Perhaps I should ask Mr. Twethewey? Surely Mrs. Colliver, the guest he entertained earlier today, would have need of a new gown every now and again. Someone has to make them.”
If she had considered it longer, Delia might have chosen a different tactic. She had no desire to make enemies, but what choice did she have? If she didn’t exert her authority, she might never get the name of a seamstress—or worse yet, she might be seen as weak.
Mrs. Bishop’s nostrils flared, and her weathered cheeks reddened. “Mr. Twethewey is a very busy man, Mrs. Greythorne. No need to trouble him with such a detail. I will write to a seamstress who might be able to help you.”
Delia inclined her head in approval. “Thank you. Please make arrangements for her to come here as soon as possible. And to bring fabric samples, appropriate for both full and half mourning.”
With that, Delia turned and made her way back to the entrance hall. She’d not realized her pulse was racing until she arrived at the second floor of the west wing. After confirming that the girls were still reading in the library, she withdrew to her new bedcham
ber and closed the door behind her, finally allowing herself to fully inhale and exhale.
Silence surrounded her. She leaned back against the door, closed her eyes, and took several calming breaths. Two streams of afternoon light filtered through the tall, paned windows and landed on the muslin of her gown, the warmth comforting after the chilly interaction with the new master.
She opened her eyes. She’d not really had time alone yet to assess her new quarters. They were certainly not as fine as her private rooms at Easten Park, which had been spacious and airy. But this chamber, with its low ceilings and faded plaster walls, possessed a charm of its own. A green oblong rug had been brought from another room and now covered the planked floor. A small fireplace with a surprisingly ornate mantelpiece stood on the west wall, and at the north end, a short wooden door connected her chamber to a small sitting room. A canopied bed had been cleaned for her that very day, and a writing desk had been relocated from the library.
She stepped closer to one of her windows—her favorite part of the chamber—and looked down to the walled garden below. It was still waking from its winter slumber, but even in its current state there was evidence of grandeur. At some point someone had taken great pride in the intricate layout and the color scheme. Despite its overgrown appearance, it was peaceful. Serene. She’d experienced precious little peace in the past week, and her soul craved it.
The garden’s large pink-and-red rhododendrons swayed in the breeze, and a smattering of bluebells carpeted the earth under a copse of elm trees. The flowers were a familiar sight, for the Greythorne House gardens had boasted much of the same flora.
The simple memory snapped her solace.
It would be easy to lose herself in the busy details of everyday life while caring for the children. She could throw herself into their education and their relationship with their uncle and pretend that all was well. Yes, she could try to forget, but every time she saw rhododendrons or bluebells, she would be reminded that she was back in Cornwall, and not far from where she started.
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 7
