A Bewitching Governess
School of Magic, Book 2
Patricia Rice
She’s the mistress of illusion
Lady Olivia Malcolm Hargreaves is a viscountess, a widow, a governess, the adopted mother of a disabled toddler—but above all else, she is a survivor. When the father of the young children she’s been caring for arrives on Christmas Eve, drunk and ranting, his aura and her own sad experience tell her he’s dangerous.
Heart hardened after the murder of his beloved wife, Simon Blair is an industrialist who has no use for another psychic Malcolm. His late wife’s weird family is more than enough interference. But his twin daughters are talking to their mother’s ghost, his son and heir is floating objects that shouldn’t float, and he’s beleaguered by aristocrats who refuse to acknowledge his plebeian existence.
When Simon learns that Lady Olivia is in a position to help him obtain the land he needs for his business, and she recognizes that by helping him, she might regain the home she’s lost, they must fight their respective prejudices and forge an uneasy alliance. It might take a ghost, an army of children, and a criminal gang to force them to recognize that they want far more than real estate.
Author’s note
As I mentioned in the previous volume, the Association is pure fiction. Yes, through centuries of history there have always been groups of powerful men who would do whatever it took to have their way. We still have groups like that today. It’s human nature to believe one’s own beliefs are right and others are wrong. The Victorians were very fond of “associations” of all sorts, good, bad, and indifferent. So I simply combined all the factors I required into a single group. Some of the members are a little more dangerous than others, as my characters will learn.
Regular readers may notice that I’m giving my Malcolm descendants “gifts” that do not wholly fall under the scientific or psychic terms I used in earlier books. I’ve taken my gifted Malcolms from the earthbound druidic Georgians of the original series, mixed them with the scientific Ives for a hundred years, and let the results fall where they may. And then I’ve thrown in a few natural talents just to see what happens, all in the interest of giving readers a fun new experience. Let me know how that works for you!
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Acknowledgments
As before, my extreme gratitude to Monica Burns for the assortment of Gaelic and Scots dialect, both insults and endearments. They saved me time and inspired ideas I’d never have had without them. And to Phyllis Radford, editor of my heart, who reminds me that emotion is part of romance, and Mindy Klasky, beta reader extraordinaire, without whom conflict would never happen.
Creating a book is like raising children—it requires a village. I have been blessed with an assortment of friends, family, and fellow writers who understand when I stop and stare blankly at a particularly interesting building or ask what it feels like to fear heights. And blessed as I am, they help me in all the technical ways that would defeat me otherwise!
Autumn, 1868
Lady Olivia Hargreaves fought tears by picking at a lighter black spot in her once-best silk gown. Since Owen’s death, everyone and everything looked black to her. The auras of the roomful of men talking at her appeared no more than shadows, and she wondered if she’d ever see the brilliance of a bright spirit like her husband’s again.
“You’ll understand it’s in the best interest of the estate and the tenants,” Lawrence Hargreaves said, repeating his father’s words. He spoke in an accent so much like her late husband’s that she couldn’t listen without wanting to fling herself into her brother-in-law’s arms and pretend Owen had returned—until she remembered Lawrence’s murky aura.
How could Owen have such a weak brother? Only nineteen, Lawrence was as vulnerable to his father’s whims as she was in her widowhood.
She cradled her husky son in her arms, glad he slept. At three, he wouldn’t comprehend the discussion. The physician had said he hadn’t the mental capacity to ever comprehend. But Bobby was Owen’s son, their own flesh and blood, and she wouldn’t trade his happy, loving nature for any child in the world. She kissed his fair hair and tried to pay attention to her visitors.
“A woman can’t work with field hands and miners. You’ll have riots,” Basingstoke said. Father to Owen and Lawrence, the earl was a stout man she’d only met once, before she married, when she was very young. He’d been no more than a distant figurehead, a wealthy, powerful man in England who had nothing to do with her life here in rural Scotland.
Her husband had owned this estate in Scotland and hadn’t been interested in his family home in England, for reasons that were becoming more obvious. She might not see color, but the deep shadows of the earl’s aura reflected very little of her late husband’s innate integrity.
The sheriff—they’d brought the sheriff—cleared his throat. “Without any trust document to the contrary, the case will be decided in Chancery. The earl has the stronger position. Land passes through the male line, and that would be to the new Lord Hargreaves.”
Olivia winced at hearing Owen’s younger brother addressed by her husband’s title. She had no clear idea of what they talked about. As irrational as it seemed, her three-year-old son was Lord Hargreaves now. Why did they call Lawrence by the title?
“If Lawrence steps into Owen’s shoes, the transition will be scarcely noticeable, and the estate will be in good hands. The tenants will respect the title,” the earl insisted.
Respect. . . oh! Now she understood. She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
The tenants would not respect Owen’s son—or Olivia as executor for the three-year-old viscount. Deep purple shadow filled the room. At least purple was a color—the color of distress, apparently.
The earl didn’t have to say what everyone knew. Even should he live to attain his majority, Bobby would never be a leader of men. Her son was defective, mentally challenged, deformed. In the earl’s mind, Bobby was better off as dead as his father.
Feeling a quiver of fear at that knowledge, Olivia hardened her heart a little more, and it was a cynical heart to start with.
“The land is mine,” she said quietly, willing herself to stiffen her spine and stand with Bobby cradled in her arms. “You may have the title if it pleases you, but Owen left his land to me and to Bobby.”
“No, he didn’t,” the earl said angrily. “We’ve consulted your claim with his solicitor. My son left no trust agreement.”
Would this day never end? Wearily, Olivia turned to her young brother-in-law. “You were there, Lawrence. You witnessed our marriage. Owen had the trust prepared at the same time. You witnessed both.”
The boy wouldn’t meet her eye. He stood at the mullioned window of Olivia’s home, studying the estate her late husband had so lovingly tended. “No, I witnessed only a mock ceremony and signed nothing legal.”
All the colors in the room turned red with her rage.
One
Christmas 1870
The train’s brakes screeched loud and long, waking Simon Blair from a much-needed nap. He could sleep through a riot, but screeching brakes triggered a hurt so deep that he thought he was having an attack of the heart.
It was a damned good thing he was in an open car and not one of those coffins they called compartments. He shuddered, and clutching the pain under his ribs, glanced out the window. The engine had halted in the vast bleakness of a Yorkshire hillside
.
Pushing aside the day that had broken his ribs and his heart, he took a calming sip from his flask and checked his watch. He was already a day late. Christmas was tomorrow. He’d promised his bairns he’d be there this evening to light their very first tree—in a bluidy duke’s castle, no less.
Of course, his late wife’s family would be related to a bluidy duke. He’d not known that until they had taken over his life.
The stiff leather of his fancy new boots crushed his toes as his well-worn ones never had. But he hadn’t wished to shame his children by arriving looking like the countryman he was at heart. His cousin Drew called him an industrialist—which apparently was a feckin’ fancy name for a man who owed the banks more than his life was worth.
Restless and irritable, Simon sought the conductor. “Another cow on the track?” he asked, familiar with the idiosyncrasies of train travel.
The conductor pulled out his watch. “The water tank probably froze and sprung a leak. We’ll take on coal and be on our way again as soon as they pump in more.”
“Leaking water has naught to do with squealing brakes,” Simon reminded him.
“Well, there might be a bit of track raised by the frost,” the conductor admitted. “They’ll fix it when they fix the pipes.”
“How long?” Simon checked his own watch, verifying there weren’t many hours of daylight left.
The answer was less than satisfactory.
Muttering curses, Simon retrieved his portmanteau and climbed off the train in the middle of bleeding nowhere. Coal did not appear in a sheep field without men and carts. He’d find the source and hire a horse. He wasn’t letting his bairns down again.
He’d lost their mother. He’d left the weans with strangers for a year while he dealt with his problems. But he’d finally cleared out the Association scoundrels who had killed Letitia, and the children should be safe now. He just had to reach the feckin’ castle in the middle of rural Yorkshire that his wife’s insane family had chosen for their safety.
His new boots creaked as he stomped along the tracks, rubbing sores in his heels and toes. They’d mend. He just needed a horse—preferably a sturdy farm horse. He wasn’t a small man.
Miles later, with the daylight nearly gone, and a mizzle dampening his fine new coat, Simon finally saw lights. Cold and damp, in dire need of a pint, a fire, and to remove his damnable boots, Simon squelched into a tiny village containing a lone tavern. He let himself into a dark cave illuminated only by an oil lamp and a smoking peat fire. “I need a horse to take me to Castle Yates,” he announced to the few ripe occupants at the bar.
They stared at him blankly, and Simon recalled it was Christmas Eve. No one wanted to leave the comforts of home and family on a night of worship. But surely someone could use a few extra coins. “I’ll pay well.”
“You ain’t built for our ponies. Will might take you in his cart,” one of the old men finally replied. “He don’t never see the inside of the church anyway.”
While the locals discussed all possible alternatives, Simon ordered a pint and warmed himself at the fire. The alcohol helped to still the tempest whirling within him.
Apparently deciding Will was the best choice, one of the old men hobbled off. Simon downed another pint while attempting to choke down a meat pie apparently made of vinegar and gristle.
He’d come a long way since those days when he’d been so desperate he would have eaten shoe leather to fill his empty belly.
He’d come a long way since he’d had to hitch a ride on an oxen cart. At the arrival of his ride, he gazed at the medieval collection of boards and the massive beast with impatience. “Is there naught better than this? I could walk faster!”
Well, no, he couldn’t. The boots were drying into a harness that had rubbed all the skin off his feet and started on his ankles. He’d be a cripple if he walked much farther.
“Ol’ Bessie will getcha there,” Will slurred, patting his placid animal’s rump.
Will had evidently been tippling holiday cheer.
Simon grudgingly accepted a seat in the cart. In the rain. In his best coat. Why the devil the women had to hide the bairns in the inaccessible back of nowhere was beyond him.
Old Bessie plodded reliably through the rain and the mud without need of coal. Will, however, required large gulps of liquid fortification as the sun set. He generously shared when Simon showed him the glint of coin. Liquid fire warmed him from the inside, and he breathed easier as his temper settled. The alcohol was necessary to steady the wicked winds of his soul.
The rain poured, raising rivulets and creeks that frequently intersected with the road. The driver obliviously guided the cart through the rushing water—until, in one particularly deep cascade, the wheel slid off the embankment and into a bed of mud. Sitting there muzzily blinking off the water sluicing from his cap, Will was in no condition to climb out and free the wheel.
Cursing volubly, Simon stripped off his good coat. Unable to remove his sodden boots, he finished their ruination by jumping into the rushing water and viscous mud. Furious with the driver, the rain, and himself, he shoved at the heavy wheel.
In his wrath, the winds seemed to increase to hurricane force. The cart unexpectedly yanked free of the mud, the ox hauled forward, and Simon splashed, face first, into the muddy stream.
Bessie plodded onward with Will asleep at the reins.
Simon ran to catch up, with the wind whirling harder in protest of the vile oaths he flung at the darkening heavens.
Nearly seven and mature for his age, Enoch levitated the painted mug he’d planned to give his father until Olivia snatched it away before it broke.
Four-year-old Cat had lined up her yarn dolls on the window seat overlooking the road her father would have to ride up. Then she’d forlornly propped her chin on the cushion and watched with them.
Clare, Cat’s twin, was holding a whispered conversation with an entity in the corner, presumably her late mother. Clare did not communicate well on a good day.
As the rain fell harder and the day turned to night, and no gentleman arrived in an elegant carriage or on a prancing horse, the children grew despondent.
Olivia had never met their father, but she wanted to snatch the hair from his head for treating the hopes and dreams of his children so callously. He should have been here yesterday. He’d promised. Promises meant a lot to children this young.
She’d admired their father’s intelligence in sending them to safety, but her opinion of Mr. Simon Blair was rapidly deteriorating.
Golden-haired Evie had fallen asleep under the table where the other children had laid out a neat tea table and sugar biscuits to welcome their father. Olivia’s adopted daughter had a smile that illuminated dark corners, but even Evie had tired of patting everyone consolingly.
“Come away from the window,” Olivia coaxed. “Your father cannot make the horses run faster. Let me teach you a new game. You can practice your numbers and learn to use your gifts.”
She hadn’t wanted to introduce them to her vice knowing they would be going home soon, and she’d be back in Edinburgh by Hogmanay. But she’d read them every book in the nursery, given them the sweets she’d planned to give them tomorrow, and quiet Clare was now near tears.
“What if Daddy is dead?” the bolder twin demanded. “What if the bad men killed him like they killed Mama?”
That was a horrible memory for ones so young. It had been a year since the tragic accident, but their mother hadn’t been forgotten.
“Your mama is still here,” Olivia reminded them. “Clare, what does she have to say?”
Clare shook her blond head. “She was crying, and now I can’t see her.” The child wandered over to the small table where Olivia was setting out a well-worn deck of cards.
Always fascinated with numbers, Enoch picked up the cardboard, showing off by levitating them into a proper order. “Daddy said cards are tools of the devil, and we’re not to touch them.”
“Well, your dad
dy isn’t here,” Olivia said a little more tartly than she should. “And you will be learning numbers and how to add while having a little fun. Come along, girls, have a seat. There are princesses in this deck.”
Daisy, the elderly nursemaid, popped her head into the schoolroom as the children settled into their chairs. “We’re having a bit of a shindy belowstairs. Do you need me for aught this evening?”
“I’ll be happy to tuck the children in later,” Olivia told her. “You might ask Mrs. James to have a room warming for Mr. Blair since he’s arriving a bit late in this foul weather.”
A bit late—like an entire day and a half. She knew precisely when the train from Edinburgh arrived. If he’d been on today’s train, he should have been here by midafternoon. The station was no more than a mile away.
Daisy bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to join the hordes of servants who kept the castle running.
Olivia might have been demoted from viscountess to governess, but she was not a belowstairs servant.
“Let us try a simple game first. Clare, can you tell me the numbers on the cards? And Cat, tell me what colors Clare displays as she counts. Enoch, if you must levitate, try shuffling the cards after Clare has read them correctly.”
While the three Blairs organized themselves, Olivia checked under the table to be certain no little feet disturbed Evie. The child slept the sound sleep of the innocent, and Olivia’s heart tugged in memory of Bobby, who had once done the same. She’d had years of practice in stifling tears. So she smiled at the healthy, sleeping child and returned to the ones still awake.
“There’s a new color in the corner by the cupboard,” Cat whispered.
Clare squinted in that direction. “It’s a gentleman wearing a funny coat. I think he wants the cards.”
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