The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “Can I go?”

  Jac chuckled at the boy’s enthusiasm. It was refreshing—and encouraging. He ruffled his hair. “The ball is for adults, but the village children always picnic on the lawn the day before. You can attend that if you like.”

  Liam stepped forward, his icy glare directed at his little brother. “We can’t go. We’re in mourning. You know that, Johnny. Why would we want to go to a dumb party when Father just died?” The sudden anger in Liam’s young face made him appear much older than his years, and much more forceful.

  Jac could only stare. Surely the tutor and governess couldn’t object to a bit of frivolity, even if they were in mourning.

  A commotion interrupted their conversation. The granite wheel scraped off the wagon bed and crashed to the ground, flinging up dirt and spewing dust and hay into the humid air. A long pole was threaded through the stone’s middle to serve as an axel, and workmen assumed positions on either side to help the massive wheel roll steadily. With shouts and grunts the workers harnessed it to the oxen to be pulled into the barn.

  Jac watched the spectacle, his hand on Johnny’s shoulder, until footsteps pounding behind him snatched his attention. He pivoted to see Liam’s lanky form sprinting toward the horses tied on the other side of the road.

  The sight alarmed Jac. He gripped Johnny’s shoulder. “I want you to stay far away from that stone. Understand? Go to Mr. Andrews over there by the door and don’t move.”

  Johnny looked back at his brother, confusion darkening his small face, but he obeyed and ran to Mr. Andrews.

  Once certain Johnny was nowhere near the stone, Jac jogged after Liam, who was jerking at his pony’s reins, trying to free them.

  “What are you doing?” Jac stomped over the long grass, confused at the sudden change in demeanor.

  “I don’t want to be here,” shouted the lad, his voice tight.

  “That’s fine, but it’s no reason for you to run away like that.” Jac shifted and watched as a fat tear ran down the boy’s cheek.

  The sight took Jac aback. He reached out to still the boy’s jerky movements.

  But Liam ripped his arm free. “You can’t make me stay here! I don’t care about the stupid stone, or the stupid crusher, or the stupid Frost Ball.” His movements were growing increasingly more frantic. His breath hitched in his throat.

  Shocked, Jac considered his words as Liam returned his attention to the pony. He’d thought the outbursts were behind them and that Liam had already said his piece.

  Jac spoke low. “That’s fine. You don’t have to be at the cider barn or go to the Frost Ball. But you do have to be respectful.”

  When Liam couldn’t untie the reins, he dropped them and forced his full attention on Jac. “Respectful?” Redness flushed his cheeks. “I don’t care about anything to do with Penwythe Hall.”

  “Your father wanted you here. Surely that counts for something.”

  “Not to me. You didn’t see him. He was dying. He wasn’t right. Mr. Steerhead shouldn’t have let him change his will.”

  “I understand your frustration, I do. I—”

  “How could you understand?” Liam’s voice cracked. Then his eyes narrowed. “I hate you for what you did to my father.” The boy stomped farther toward the forest lining the far side of the road leading to the village.

  Jac couldn’t allow Liam to walk into an unfamiliar forest. He jogged to catch up with him, but when he reached him, Liam whirled around, anger oozing from his expression. He pulled back his fist and, seemingly with every ounce of force his body possessed, punched Jac in the chest.

  Stunned at the suddenness of the attack, Jac stumbled backward to keep his footing. But Liam punched him again and again, each strike faster than the last.

  Jac grabbed the boy’s upper arms and held him at arm’s length, letting him wriggle and punch until his energy wore out.

  The sight pained him.

  Grief was fueling the outburst, not anger. Not anger at him, anyway.

  Perspiration dotted Liam’s brow. His hair clung in sweaty clumps to his forehead, and tears pooled in his blue eyes, adding to their vibrancy. “You’re a thief. You stole this property from my father, and that’s like stealing money. You knew he was working hard to provide for us and our future, and you didn’t care. So why should you care about us now? As soon as I’m of age, I’m leaving and taking my sisters and brother with me. I hate you!”

  With a fresh burst of energy, the boy swung his arm out again. This time Jac pulled the lad toward him and embraced him. Tightly. Preventing him from flailing.

  Liam was no longer the adolescent on the verge of adulthood; he was a boy grieving the loss of his father.

  At first Liam stood firm, but moment by moment, his muscles loosened until he was sobbing against Jac’s shoulder.

  Jac, not knowing what to do, remained silent and still while Liam cried, allowing him time and space to release the raw emotion pummeling him.

  At length, Liam pulled away, and Jac dropped his arms to his sides. The boy who had been so tough moments before was now sheepish. He dragged his sleeve across his nose and wouldn’t look at Jac.

  Jac nodded toward a fallen log on the forest’s edge. They sat in silence for several moments, Liam’s chest still heaving, the sound of shouting and calling echoing from the distant courtyard.

  “You don’t have to like me, Liam. But you must accept that your father wanted you all to be here. There’s no getting around it. I don’t know what your father told you about the will, but there are two sides to every story. One day, when you’re ready, I’ll tell you my side. You’re not a child, and you deserve to know the facts and to determine your own opinion on things.” Cautiously, Jac draped his arm around the boy’s shoulder. But Liam didn’t pull away.

  Jac looked from the canopy of the trees above him to the cider barn in the distance. Like Liam, Jac wished he knew for sure why his brother had sent the children to him, but he owed Randall something. And just like he would not give up on his plans for the orchards, he would not give up on the children who had been entrusted to his care.

  Chapter 16

  Delia stopped short as she turned the corner to the library. Mr. Simon was standing alone by the window, looking down at the grounds. His broad back and sable hair created a strong silhouette against the day’s brightness.

  “What are you doing?” She breezed into the room and stepped to the shelf.

  He did not turn to face her. “I don’t know what Mr. Twethewey was thinking sending his children here.” His flat tone held no amusement, and his gaze didn’t leave the window. “He must’ve been out of his wits when he made that decision.”

  Shocked at the sudden vehemence in his voice, Delia slowed her movements as she sifted through the books and then returned a wayward tome to the shelf. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m rather pleased with how the children are settling in. It’s only been a little more than a week and already they seem to be adjusting. I thought it would take them much longer.”

  He scoffed, finally looking away from the window, and tilted his head patronizingly. “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not.” She walked along the shelf, reading the titles as she did so. “I think they seem quite happy, especially Sophy and Johnny.”

  “Do you know where he’s taken Johnny and Liam? To watch the crusher go in the cider barn, like common laborers, as if it’s some great feat.”

  “But that’s the industry here, is it not? Agriculture and things of that sort? Mrs. Angrove said that people here make their living by the sea, the land, or the mines.”

  “Yes, but they are a gentleman’s sons, not common farmhands.”

  “This isn’t London, Mr. Simon.” She raised her voice, sensing her opinions were falling upon deaf ears. “It’s good for them to be exposed to different ways of life, especially since they live here now.”

  “Why are you coming to the man’s defense?” Mr. Simon huffed. “That’s not what Mr. Twethewey wanted for them, and y
ou know it.”

  Delia winced, weary of this conversation yet again. “Perhaps their uncle’s trying to get to know the children. Give him time. I think he’s a good man and has the children’s best interests at heart.”

  “A good man?” Mr. Simon squawked, jabbing a thick finger for emphasis. “Don’t forget what he did. He stole an estate from his brother. Good men just don’t do that.”

  “Now you sound like Mr. Steerhead,” she teased, attempting to lighten the mood. “We will never know what happened, not really, and ultimately it’s none of our business.”

  Mr. Simon’s gaze narrowed. “Jac Twethewey is a scoundrel. It’ll all be evident in the end, as such things always are, and it’ll be the children who suffer.”

  Delia gaped, unsure how to respond to the outburst. Mr. Simon was prone to extreme opinions and had a vocal temper, but this seemed odd, even for him. Perhaps he knew something she didn’t. It would not be the first time the males at Easten Park had kept details from her.

  After several seconds, his brow rose, as if an idea had just formed, and he folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t believe it. You’re actually content here.”

  Delia tucked a book under her arm, avoiding eye contact. “I’m happy to have a roof over my head, and to be needed. Isn’t that all any woman in my position needs?”

  He snorted. “You’re much more complacent than I.”

  “I’m not complacent. I just think you are overreacting to the entire situation.”

  “Then you have a frustratingly small view of the world.” He snatched his satchel and stuffed his book inside. “There’s far more to experience in this world than staring at rows of apple trees and celebrating cider barns.”

  She sobered. His rant had taken a personal turn, and she rotated to face him fully. “I’m a widow, as you well know, and I have but three options in life, Mr. Simon. My first option is to stay where I am and be content about it. Secondly, I could return to my brother’s house, but with my ill sister and his rather large family, I would be nothing more than a burden. That I could not bear. And third . . .”

  He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

  She drew a deep breath. It would not do to speak of such a matter with a man, even if that man was a friend. And yet she felt compelled to say it out loud, even if just to remind herself of the truth. “Third, I could remarry. But since I never leave the premises and rarely meet anyone new, that’s hardly a viable option. As a man, you have broader options, but as far as I’m concerned, yes, I am resolved to be happy here, and I suggest you do the same.”

  He stepped past her to gather papers on the far table. “Be that as it may, I’ve written to Mr. Steerhead about my concerns. Surely Mr. Twethewey gave him some guidance in what to do if this situation did not go well.”

  “My advice, if you are looking for it, is to just let the situation stabilize. You might be surprised.”

  The door creaked open, and a maid appeared in the doorway.

  Delia forced a smile and smoothed the gray muslin of her sleeve. “Yes, what is it?”

  The maid cast a sheepish glance at Mr. Simon before she entered farther. “The footman asked me to give these to you. I’ve one for each of you.” She extended both her hands with a letter gripped in each one.

  Mr. Simon snatched his letter from her hand and muttered a word of gratitude as he brushed past them to the corridor.

  Delia accepted her letter and gave the maid a reassuring smile. “Thank you.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy, and then Delia read the writing on the outside of her missive. She smiled at the familiar script in spite of the tension that had gathered in her shoulders. It was always good to hear from her sister. She tucked the letter in her apron and saved it for later.

  * * *

  Delia leaned down to assess the hurried scrawl of her youngest pupil’s handwriting. They’d been working together for months to improve Sophy’s penmanship, and satisfaction mingled with pride as Delia studied the splotches of wayward ink marring the paper. “Very nice, Sophy.”

  Sophy beamed and angled her paper so her sister could see. “Look, Hannah!”

  With a smile Delia stepped around the table to where Hannah and Julia were sitting, and she glanced over their shoulders as they worked on their paintings.

  A deep male voice broke the silence. “Excuse me, ladies. I’ve no wish to intrude.”

  Delia glanced up to see Mr. Andrews in the threshold. She straightened, surprised. She had only interacted with him in passing, such as when he would collect the boys to visit the stable. “Mr. Andrews.”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Simon. Is he here?”

  “No, he’s not. He and the boys have gone with Mr. Twethewey to the fishing ponds.”

  “Mrs. Greythorne, might I speak with you, then? In private?” He waited in the doorway until she joined him in the corridor. “Mr. Twethewey wanted to set up riding lessons for the boys. The groom wants them at the stable tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.”

  Delia frowned. “Did he mean for both boys? I thought Mr. Twethewey was aware of Johnny’s fear of horses.”

  “He thinks it is best for the boy to face his fears. Don’t worry, the groom has taught many children to ride, Mr. Twethewey included.” He leaned forward with a playful smile, as if taking her into his confidence. “Even so, I do not think Mr. Simon agrees with the decision.”

  She gave a little laugh and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Mr. Simon has his own decided opinions, that is safe to say. But he’s well intentioned.”

  “Would you like for me to arrange lessons for the young ladies as well? Mr. Twethewey didn’t know if they could ride.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, taken aback by the sentiment. She glanced at her charges bent over their paintings and studies, then observed the blue sky through the window. How pleasant it would be for them to be out riding in the fresh air instead of cooped up inside. “Their father never was in favor of ladies riding. He preferred them engaging in more feminine pursuits.”

  As if sensing her hesitation, he continued. “You’re from Cornwall, are you not, Mrs. Greythorne? Surely you must know how important it is for everyone to know how to ride a horse, especially in the country. Even so, Mr. Twethewey wanted to leave the decision up to you.”

  She winced at the comment. She’d barely spoken with Mr. Andrews, and yet he knew such a personal detail about her. Like a bolt of lightning, fear struck her core, as if at any moment her in-laws would learn of her location.

  She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Mr. Andrews. It’s a fine idea.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Besides, you’ll not find a better instructor than Giggs.” He nodded toward Julia and Hannah. “I see the young ladies are painting. Were you aware that Mrs. Angrove is a celebrated artist?”

  “Mrs. Angrove? No, I had no idea.”

  “Her paintings hang all throughout Penwythe. That one, for example.” His hat was in his hand, and he pointed to a painting with it.

  Delia stepped closer to the painting of a flower to admire the intricate strokes of pink, white, and green. “She painted this?”

  “Oh yes. Old Mr. Angrove grew the flowers and she painted them.”

  Delia smiled, recalling Mrs. Angrove’s words of love for her husband, as her eyes fell to a series of smaller gilt-framed paintings on the wall lining the corridor. She stepped from painting to painting. She’d seen them dozens of times, but now that she knew the artist, a new appreciation formed.

  She’d almost forgotten Mr. Andrews was still there until he asked, “Do you intend to attend the Frost Ball, Mrs. Greythorne?”

  She lifted her head at the common question. The Frost Ball seemed to be on everyone’s lips. Besides Mrs. Angrove at the picnic, no one had mentioned it to her personally, yet she often heard the servants planning for it. “I am a governess, Mr. Andrews. My place is with the children.”

  “Even so, it would be a shame for y
ou to miss it.”

  It was then she met his eyes. They were kind and warm—a trait she had missed in their previous interactions. She liked the way he spoke with her. Friendly, easy, unforced. As steward, he was no servant. He held a position of responsibility, and that position demanded respect. He was not on equal terms with the servants, nor was he on equal terms with the owner. Like her. How nice it would be to have a friend in him or, at the very least, an ally.

  He stepped forward. “Well, if you do decide to attend, you must save a dance for me. I’ll be counting on it.”

  She flushed under his forwardness, but there was also almost playfulness in his nature. “Very well, Mr. Andrews.” She stood in the hallway as he retreated, watching as his shadow disappeared around the corner.

  A man—a handsome one—had just asked her to dance.

  A strange flutter jumped in her heart.

  She had not danced since before Robert died. There had been a time in her life when a country dance would set her heart reeling. But now . . .

  Her heart fluttered again and a smile toyed with the corners of her lips. The wayward lock of hair slipped again, and she tucked it behind her ear. It was folly, she supposed, that the mere request could make her feel young again, but maybe, just maybe, this was a harbinger of a different life that awaited her. Perhaps the move to Cornwall was not all bad. The new situation might bring new opportunities—if only she could escape the fear of her mother-in-law’s warning.

  Chapter 17

  Delia chewed her lip as she traversed the path to Fairehold Cottage, mentally practicing what she wanted to say. Her conversation with Mr. Andrews had lingered in her thoughts and had sparked a plan. She was determined to make this transition a smooth one, for the children’s sake. What better way to do so than to enlist the help of the children’s great-aunt?

  Delia probably should have discussed her idea with Mr. Twethewey, but he’d been absent all day, and she didn’t want to delay. In her left hand she clutched Sophy’s small one. In her right she carried one of Mrs. Angrove’s small paintings, wrapped in a cloth tied with a ribbon.