Hope and fear warred with each other as she led Evie onto this much smaller train. It had no compartments. Mr. Blair had apparently bought every bench in the whole car because no one else entered. He blessedly wasn’t drunk, although his mood was surly. She suspected he didn’t appreciate being beholden to her in any way. Or maybe he just didn’t like her. That was all right and might even make life easier. She was a little too fascinated by this dark ogre who had abruptly uprooted her.
She continued reading the story she’d started the prior day, shutting out her employer’s ill humor. When the children grew restless, Daisy opened the picnic basket, and Olivia was left to occupy herself.
Mr. Blair took advantage by taking the seat next to her. His breadth was intimidating, but she was becoming somewhat used to it. He wasn’t that much taller than she, just. . . more muscular. This morning he smelled of fresh male. She missed that smell, and she fought a surge of longing.
“I thank you for agreeing to accompany us,” he said gruffly.
“It is not a difficulty for me,” she said, as stiff as he was gruff. “I love children and yours in particular. And as my aunts have pointed out, I am familiar with Greybridge and may be of assistance in finding the help you need to care for them.”
“How is it that you know the town when you lived there so briefly? I have been there these last few years and still have difficulty sorting through all the Bairds and Ramsays.”
“And you think a viscountess wouldn’t know the Bairds and Ramsays?” she asked, not hiding her amusement. “I also know the Browns and Smiths. My grandparents had a small farm just north of Greybridge. I spent part of my adolescence there, when I was not away at school or traveling with my parents. That’s how I met Owen.”
“Should I know your grandparents?” he asked, sounding wary.
“They sold the farm, probably to you. They’re now living in London with my mother, who remarried an Englishman. Farming rocky soil is not an easy life for older people.” When he waited expectantly, she reluctantly gave him their names. “My mother was a McDowell. Her father is Ambrose McDowell. Many of the people in Greybridge are related to me one way or another.”
He nodded in satisfaction. “Aye right, I remember Mr. McDowell. Crotchety but honest. I gave him a fair price, and he was happy to take it. And now that I remember, he said something about the country going to the Sassenachs, and he was glad of a good Scotsman owning his place.”
“That’s granddaddy. He tolerated my husband because Owen’s mother came of Scottish stock, and Owen chose to live on his mother’s dower land.” Her grandfather had been apoplectic when Lawrence Hargreaves took over the estate because Lawrence had never bothered visiting his mother’s homeland. “So you’ve not been in Greybridge long?”
“I’ve been buying up parcels for years. I never met your husband though. A few years back I bought a small estate to the west of the village, and we moved in about the time your husband died, I believe.” He fell silent.
She recalled he’d lost his wife only a year ago. She understood. “It’s hard to see dreams end,” she whispered.
“Enoch is stealing my bread,” Clare declared mutinously, interrupting any beginnings of accord. “I’ll throw up again.”
If quiet Clare finally learned to speak up, they’d have worse than riots on their hands.
Simon watched with both pride and dismay as his babies proved they were infants no longer. He’d need a battalion of teachers and nursemaids to mind them.
He’d grown up in the streets, free to do as he pleased, and he’d turned out all right. Was he being over-cautious wanting his children surrounded by adults because of what happened to Letitia? Possibly. No one had known of his existence when he was a child, so he was of no harm to anyone.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his children, he was learning. Like Letitia, they knew far more than was good for them. He’d hidden them in York because grown men had wanted them dead along with their mother and had attempted to abduct them. With the help of others, he’d caught the culprits, but he stood forewarned.
Simon snatched a floating cracker from the air and handed it back to a pouting Clare. He didn’t know how the lad did it, but the nonsense needed to halt. “Enoch, you are the eldest. You have a responsibility to look after your youngers, not torment them.”
“Evie too?” his son asked with more curiosity than resentment.
“All youngers,” Simon confirmed.
The governess sent him what he decided was a grateful look. That assuaged some of his resentment that he had to take her with him.
Lady Hargreaves was everything he was not—quiet, even-tempered, polite, and obviously steeped in the traditions of aristocracy. Letitia had been more like him, running wild through the countryside among the people who knew her. He and Letitia had been brought up by God-fearing Presbyterians. He had a suspicion the lady belonged to the lax aristocratic Anglicans who believed gambling was entertainment and not the devil’s temptation.
But he didn’t have to marry her. If she was willing to work for him and help him find tutors for his children and perhaps persuade the current viscount to sell him the land he needed, he could put up with her for a while. She was definitely easy to look upon—which was part of his problem.
It had been a long time since he’d had a woman in his bed.
His carriage waited for them at the train station. Simon couldn’t help taking pride in the elegant vehicle he’d never dreamed of owning when he was an urchin in the street. The lady, on the other hand, scarcely gave it any notice as she directed the children into their seats. A lady comfortable in a duke’s castle was probably used to traveling in retinues of elegant coaches accompanied by dozens of servants who waited on her every wish.
Never intending to set foot inside the trap of a carriage again, Simon rode alongside as the vehicle wended through the narrow lanes of the village and out the other side into the barren hills of his new home. Men lifted their hats to him, and he tipped his back. He was no lord, but many of the people here worked for him.
It was the ones who didn’t work for anyone that concerned him most—men of power and lineage who were gradually losing their grip on the population to men like him. Resentment was thick in the air as Sir Harvey drove his curricle past in the other direction. Knighted for his efforts in the Crimean War, Sir Harvey was not as successful at farming or investing as he was at war. Pushing his horses a little too fast, he stared straight ahead. Simon tipped his hat to him out of spite, knowing the man wouldn’t acknowledge him.
He was fairly certain Sir Harvey belonged to the Association that fought his every effort. Landowners and nobility who wished to maintain the status quo and resented Simon’s industrialization, the Association members were a hidebound lot. He hoped he’d rooted out the killers in the group, but he could never trust anyone who belonged.
As they didn’t trust him.
The solid gray stone of the home he’d known for only two years rose into view. It had echoed emptily since Letitia’s death, but the children would enliven it. Three stories, two wings, built of solid Scottish granite in an earlier time, it would last his descendants for centuries.
“I want to see Tillie,” Enoch shouted, leaping from the carriage the moment the door opened. He raced for the stable before Simon could dismount.
“The kitties?” Cat asked hopefully as she jumped down.
“Are no longer kitties, dearheart. Kitties grow. They’re in the kitchen.” Simon reached up to Clare, who wasn’t so bold as to leap down without the steps.
“Mama’s happy,” she whispered as he swung her down.
He had no notion what to say to that. He set her down, and she raced off after her twin. The servants were waiting at the door, eager to greet them.
The driver finally let down the stairs so the governess—the viscountess—could descend with her daughter. She didn’t accept Simon’s hand but gazed at his home with what he hoped was admiration.
“It is very. . . large,” she murmured, coming to stand beside him while the elderly nursemaid worked her way down the steps with the driver’s aid.
“Aye, old. It needs work. But it’s solid. I telegraphed to tell the housekeeper to open the best suite for you.” He tried not to notice that the lady’s head came past his shoulder and that she was all round curves and soft fabrics that swished when she moved. He’d spent too many nights dreaming of those times he’d stripped Letitia of stockings and undergarments. . .
“This is an awkward situation,” she mused. “I work for you. I am not a guest. I should be housed with the children.”
“I’m bringing in a relation to act as chaperone.” He’d not planned that until just this minute, but his Aunt Maggie had been hinting that she’d love to leave home and come to stay. “We should probably have a story behind your return. We’ll discuss it over dinner.”
She raised her shapely brows but merely nodded, lifted her skirts, and proceeded up the stairs as if she belonged there. Simon hurried after her, introducing her as a friend of the family to the waiting staff. Speculation would be rife. He’d have to watch himself.
To his surprise, Letitia’s younger sister was waiting inside. He bit his tongue on demanding an explanation and attempted civility by introducing the women.
“Viscountess Hargreaves?” Emma asked. “The one who owns Hargreaves Hall?”
The lady pulled off her gloves and answered slowly, as if considering all the ramifications of a reply. “My late husband owned it. My brother-in-law lives there now.”
“Pardon my bluntness, but he should be shot for neglect.”
Simon sighed, “Letitia’s younger sister, Emma. Blunt is her middle name.”
Brushing him aside as if he were merely an obstacle in her way, freckle-faced Emma lifted the lady’s valise so Lady Hargreaves might take Evie’s hand. “Let me see you up to your room. Simon, I believe your steward wishes a word with you as soon as possible.”
So much for warning just the housekeeper of a visitor. Apparently, the entire family and two countries knew of it by now.
Olivia followed her adolescent hostess up carpeted stairs and down halls of ancient oak. The walls above the wainscoting were freshly painted, allowing for artwork that was apparently long gone with the previous owner. She couldn’t hear the children, but she supposed that was to be expected. She’d have to find the nursery and schoolroom later.
Evie ran around the marvelous suite Miss Emma brought them to as if it were a racecourse. Admittedly, the furniture was sparse, limited to a solid curtained bedstead, a vanity, and an armoire in the bedchamber. The parlor sported a threadbare loveseat, a wing chair beside the grate, and a writing desk. There was plenty of room for a racecourse along the wood not covered by old hand-woven carpet.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” the blunt Miss Emma said. “But we all want to help Simon, and we’re curious. It’s been a year now. He needs to leave his grief behind and get on with living. The bairns need that.”
“I am not privy to Mr. Blair’s personal life,” Olivia said, parsing her words. “I have been caring for the children in his absence. I have acquaintances in Greybridge, and my aunts thought I might assist him in hiring the help he’ll need. But if he has you and his wife’s family. . .” She allowed her voice to trail off questioningly.
Miss Emma was a slight redhead about the age Olivia had been when she’d married. Olivia liked her candor and saw no reason to read her aura. Auras should be private unless there was good reason to pry.
“The aunts!” Miss Emma cried in delight. “They are family legend.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Let me properly introduce myself. I am Emma Malcolm Montgomery, and you really must call me Emma. There are too many of us otherwise. My mother corresponds with your aunts. They are not really aunts, are they? Just distant interfering relations.”
Olivia smiled in relief at knowing at least one person in this household might accept the children’s eccentricities. “The family has grown too large for anyone but the Librarian to keep up with the genealogy. Lady Gertrude and Lady Agnes have been a godsend to any number of us, so calling them aunt is mostly a term of endearment and respect. If you are a Malcolm, then I shall be proud to call you cousin.”
Miss Montgomery—Emma—beamed. “Persuade Simon to hold a ball so I might make a debut and marry a wealthy lord, please. Letitia promised but. . .” She gestured helplessly. “We all miss her.”
“Perhaps you should speak with your niece, then. Clare believes she is talking with her mother. I would not know if she was talking to the devil since I did not know Mrs. Blair. It might be reassuring for both of you to have a chat.”
“Oh, intriguing! I shall do that. Do you need anything? We didn’t know if you would bring a maid. I’ll find you one who can at least carry water and stoke the fire. We don’t have anyone so fine as to dress hair, I fear.”
Olivia laughed. “I have been dressing myself since childhood. I wouldn’t know what to do with a lady’s maid. I would be grateful for warm water, however. And then I must find the schoolroom. I don’t wish to neglect the children’s lessons.”
“Tea at four,” Emma cried cheerfully as she departed. “I wish to learn to do everything a lady does so I will not embarrass my lordly husband.”
Olivia chuckled as the child departed. Such dreams one had at that age. . .
She’d married her dream, but it had been short-lived. She supposed she should be grateful for what time she’d been given.
If she were counting her blessings. . . She scooped up Evie and hugged her. She was growing into a sturdy little girl, and Olivia wouldn’t be able to lift her much longer, but Evie squealed with such delight, that she couldn’t resist. Having someone to love was essential to her nature, and Evie needed love as desperately as Olivia once had.
She really needed to speak with Mr. Blair though. She didn’t know if he would prefer that Evie be kept in the nursery with his children or if she should keep her here. She didn’t know what was best either, but the children did seem to get along well. Neglected most of her short life, Evie was now slowly learning words, even if she didn’t always use them.
The maid brought hot water, and Olivia washed and brushed out her skirt. After she rested a little while Evie napped, she was ready for tea. She wondered what Emma might think a proper tea consisted of, but she wasn’t particular.
After locating the nursery, listening to the children excitedly show her their belongings, and leaving Evie with Daisy, Olivia descended the stairs in search of a familiar face. She was jarred to a halt when Mr. Blair emerged from a doorway accompanied by the Hargreaves’ estate manager.
Jeremy Hill nodded respectfully at sight of her. “A pleasure it is to see you again, my lady. We miss his lordship.”
“As do we all, Mr. Hill.” She continued down the stairs, wanting to question, not certain she should.
“You know each other? Of course, you do. I forgot. Hill has been acting as my steward in land matters these past two years.”
“The viscount let you go?” Olivia asked in horror. “For heaven’s sake, why?”
The steward shrugged his broad shoulders. “Wanted his own man, I suppose.” Mr. Hill looked torn, as if he wished to say more. A man not much older than Mr. Blair, he was sturdy and short-legged, with a crop of brownish curls.
Olivia didn’t need to read his aura to know that he was fighting himself. She interpreted that to mean he was fearful of speaking honestly. “Mr. Hill, I know my husband respected you. If there is something you wish to say, please do.”
He glanced to Mr. Blair, who looked surprised but nodded. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, Hill, you know that. Speak up.”
The man twisted his hat some more. “It’s young Aloysius, my lady. His ma died last winter, and he ain’t got no place to go. I been putting him up in my stable, but respectfully. . .”
Aloysius! She had given the poor boy no thought at all. She knew society require
d that she pretended Owen’s by-blow didn’t exist, but Owen had no secrets from her.
“A stable is no place for Owen’s son,” she said, horrified. “Owen settled a large sum on his mother, and I thought him well settled. What has happened?”
Hill shrugged. “We don’t know, exactly. While your husband was alive, his mother received allotments from a solicitor in Glasgow, but they quit coming sometime back. She had to take work at the tavern and Aloysius worked in the stable. He’s big for his age, but it was no place for a wean. But after she died. . . You know how it is. Times are hard just now.”
Mr. Blair followed the conversation with puzzlement. “Your husband had a son?” he asked.
“A natural son,” Olivia said defiantly. “Owen was young and careless, but he always provided for his child and the mother. This is outrageous! I know he took care of the boy in his will. I know it.”
And because she’d believed him safe with his mother, she’d forgotten the boy in her self-centered grief. One loss after another, and she’d simply wanted to forget Greybridge and all she could no longer have.
Her shoulders sagged. “I will need to hire a solicitor sooner than I expected.”
She had selfishly taken care of herself. Now she must remember she was not the only one affected by Owen’s death. She had a horrible suspicion that the earl may have done worse than she feared if he’d been so cruel as to deprive his grandson of his rightful inheritance.
What had she expected? The Hargreaves had thrown out Owen’s legitimate son and wife and denied them the land and title that were rightfully theirs. They would spit on their lesser neighbors.
And like a spineless lump, she’d allowed it.
How many others had suffered and might still be suffering now from her abdication of her duties?
Five
Simon leaned over the washbasin and carefully trimmed his sideburns. He’d never had a valet. He made do with a barber in the village. This evening, he told himself he was following his cousin Andrew’s example and attempting to become a civilized gentleman capable of dealing with lords and landowners.
A Bewitching Governess Page 4
