Then, on top of all those personal rumors, some said Haven Hall was haunted by the tragedy of its owners, the Gardyn family, and that its tenants were all either scared away or driven insane by the ghosts. Terrifying noises and unearthly visions in the vicinity of the hall had been reported for years.
Caroline discounted rumors. And yet, whether or not the man she’d encountered close to the hall had indeed been Javan Benedict, she could not help being alarmed by the prospect of the coming meeting. Lord Braithwaite had told her Mr. Benedict expected her and that, subject to an interview, she would be engaged for a trial period. This did not comfort Caroline. She didn’t want to be farmed out to strangers and strange children while she waited for Lady Braithwaite to forgive her for something she hadn’t done. She wanted to be teaching Maria and Alice and Helen…and enjoying the occasional company of the newly married Lady Serena who had become something approaching a friend over recent weeks.
But that was not an option. She could go home with no reference. Or she could go to Haven Hall and try to earn one. She would not even think of the countess’s forgiveness. She began to wonder, in fact, if she might not forgive Lady Braithwaite.
By the time she reached the overgrown drive, her meagre carpet bag of possessions felt as if it weighed a ton. Worse, the rain had come on half an hour before, and the wind had blown her bonnet off her head, playing havoc with her hair. If she had to come here, she would have preferred not to turn up on the doorstep looking like a drowned rat or some waif from the poor house.
The hall was even less comforting than the grounds. In the rain, covered with dark ivy and framed by filthy grey clouds, it looked even grimmer than its tenant. If Caroline had been fanciful—which she hoped she was not—she would have shivered with foreboding. Her current trembling was due merely to the cold and damp. Truly.
She trudged up the broken, weed-strewn path to the front door and lifted the knocker. Covering her uncertainty, she knocked rather too loudly for civility, but having done it, she couldn’t take it back. She stepped away and waited.
It seemed to take a long time before the door opened with a painful creak of hinges. An ill-dressed, dark-visaged manservant regarded her.
“Caroline Grey,” she said as briskly as she could with water running down her face. “Mr. Benedict is expecting me.”
The manservant didn’t trouble to hide his grin of amusement at her appearance. But at least he stood aside to admit her. She took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.
“One moment, Miss,” said the servant, after he’d swung the door closed behind her. He crossed the wide, wood-paneled hall to what seemed a very distant door. Despite his unconventional dress for a butler, he had a straight, vaguely military bearing.
Clearly, she wasn’t meant to follow him, so she used the time to squeeze what moisture she could out of her hair, cram some loose pins back in place, and drag her bonnet from her neck back onto her head. That way, she could pretend she was not staying, that there was still some alternative to this situation.
At least the inside of the house looked less dilapidated than the outside, although the wall panels and the table beside her could have done with a dusting.
The manservant didn’t vanish for long. He reappeared outside the distant door only moments later and beckoned to her. Feeling as though she took her life in her hands, she walked toward him. She tilted her chin for courage and sailed past him into the room.
It appeared to be a dining room, the table set for luncheon. A girl of perhaps nine or ten years old sat there gazing at Caroline, an angry lady of perhaps forty winters at her side. A gentleman, presumably Mr., Benedict, had his back to the door, standing about halfway between Caroline and the table.
As Caroline halted just inside the door, the angry lady sprang to her feet, snatching up a whole cake from the table. She hurled it with force and fury, straight at Mr. Benedict.
Caroline gasped, for the woman’s aim was true, and she was sure the cake, plate and all, must hit him. But he simply ducked, and the plate flew over his head, shattering against the wall only inches from where Caroline stood.
Cake dripped down the wall and landed among the rest of the crumbs and broken china on the floor.
In the silence, Caroline turned her bemused attention to the scarred face she recognized. His gaze lashed her. Then he turned his back and walked to the table, his stride uneven as she remembered from their first meeting.
“Marjorie,” he said quietly.
The lady glared at him in defiance, her chest heaving. And then, muttering, she stalked around the table until she stood beside him. Together, they walked directly toward Caroline, who stepped smartly aside—away from the cake.
The lady, misery rather than fury staring out from her face, didn’t so much as glance at her. She seemed to be held together by a very fine thread.
Mr. Benedict deigned to flick another glance in Caroline’s direction. “I’ll be with you directly. Please sit down. Eat, if you wish.”
At least he didn’t comment on her disheveled appearance. Perhaps he was hindered by the cake dripping down his wall.
Chapter Two
Fighting a strange sense of unreality, Caroline crossed the room to the table. The child stared at her curiously.
“You must be Rosa,” Caroline observed. “I’m Miss Grey.”
The girl nodded but said nothing. She was a pretty child, with thick, black hair and large, brown eyes.
Caroline hesitated. She had had nothing to eat all day and was ravenous after her long walk. “May I join you?”
Again, the girl nodded.
Very conscious of her rain-soaked cloak, Caroline sat on the edge of a chair, and taking an unused plate, helped herself to cold meat, cheese, pickles, and bread and butter.
“How old are you, Rosa?” she asked pleasantly, between mouthfuls.
The girl didn’t answer. Perhaps she didn’t hear, so concentrated did she appear to be on Caroline’s face. Caroline let it pass, and since her companion was not inclined to talk, she merely ate and hoped the child would get used to her. After that, she could teach her good manners.
The girl picked up the bread on her own plate and began to nibble.
When she heard the approaching footsteps that heralded Mr. Benedict’s return, Caroline hastily swallowed the food in her mouth and rose in time to see him limp into the room.
“Miss…Grey, is it?” he said, unexpectedly offering his hand.
“Yes.” Her hand seemed to vanish inside his large fingers. They felt rough in texture and strong, though his grip was brief and firm rather than harsh. His eyes betrayed no recognition that they’d met before.
“Javan Benedict. This is Rosa.”
“So I gather.”
Gesturing for Caroline to be seated, Mr. Benedict casually ruffled his daughter’s dark head as he passed and sat beside her.
He frowned at Caroline. “Take off your wet things, Miss Grey. Did the Braithwaites not provide you with a suitable conveyance?”
“I chose not to take up the offer. It wasn’t raining when I set off.” With difficulty, she untied the wet ribbons of her bonnet, then stood to remove her heavy cloak. Unexpectedly, Rosa took them from her, and with a quick smile at her father, ran to the door.
“Make sure they’re dried off,” he called after her.
“Thank you,” Caroline murmured. Stupidly, without the cloak and bonnet, she felt defenseless, vulnerable.
The man who sat opposite her and controlled her future might have been better dressed and groomed than on that first encounter, but he still seemed alarmingly harsh. And large, in a way that had less to do with his height than the force of his sheer presence. His hard, grey eyes pierced hers, searching. She wondered if he were recalling her insolence only a few weeks ago.
“What did you fall out about?” he asked abruptly, taking her by surprise once more. “You and Lady Braithwaite.”
She blinked. “I’m not sure that’s your concern, sir.”
“I am sure it is. If you are to care for my daughter, I need to know why you were dismissed.”
“Perhaps I chose to leave,” she snapped back.
“Did you?”
She dragged her gaze free of the sudden mockery in his. “No.” She took a deep breath. “Lady Braithwaite misunderstood a…passage between his lordship and myself and imagined I was insolent enough to…set my cap at him.”
“Were you?” he drawled.
She stared at him indignantly. “I am not foolish enough!” she retorted. “My living depends on my spotless reputation.”
“This is an odd place to come to keep your reputation—er—spotless.”
“Beggars,” she pointed out, “cannot be choosers.”
It was hardly the most conciliatory response she could have made. Mr. Benedict however, appeared more amused than annoyed. “Is that what you are? A beggar?”
She tilted her chin. “I need a paying position.”
He sat back, thrusting his hand into his pocket. “Was it a difficult position? With the Braithwaite girls?”
“No. It was a good position and I was happy there.”
His eyes searched hers again. “Were you?” he said deliberately.
“I believe I said so.”
Again, instead of being offended by her haughtiness, he appeared to be entertained. Certainly, his lips twitched.
“This will not be an easy position,” he observed.
Involuntarily, her gaze strayed to the shattered plate still on the floor by the door.
His breath caught. “That, however, is a rare drama, for which I apologize. Teaching Rosa would be your main challenge.”
“I am used to teaching girls of all ages.”
His gaze held hers. “You may have noticed Rosa has…special demands.”
“All children do,” she returned.
“Most of them, however, speak.”
Caroline’s eyes widened. “She does not speak? She is mute?”
“For the last two years.”
“Then she was not born mute? She is not deaf, is she?”
“No, she hears and understands everything. The doctors believe she can speak. She simply chooses not to.”
“Do you know why?”
“A nervous disorder, they tell me. What will you do if you don’t take up this post?”
It was an odd way to phrase it. Was he allowing her a pretense of choice? Or reminding her that she had none? He was the one who currently held her fate in his hands. His gaze, direct and penetrating, disconcerted her.
“I shall look for another position,” she said calmly.
“From where?” he asked at once.
She stared back at him. “From wherever I choose. Please don’t feel obliged to give me this position, sir. I am not destitute and I do have friends.”
“I am pleased for you,” he returned. “Though I’ve no idea why you should consider me so benevolent. I’m merely trying to work out if Braithwaite has done me a favor or dumped an annoyance upon me.”
Since his words left her speechless, the sudden return of Rosa was a relief. She ran into the room at high speed, the wolfhound Caroline remembered close on her heels. They both ran around the table until it was impossible to tell who was chasing whom. And then the dog leapt on the girl, bringing her down so suddenly that Caroline was alarmed, afraid she’d misjudged the dog’s good nature on their last encounter.
Since Mr. Benedict didn’t move, Caroline half rose from her chair to intervene. The dog had pinned the child to the floor and was enthusiastically licking her face while she hugged him and tried to push him off at once. Her whole face was alight with silent laughter.
Over the animal’s head, Rosa’s merry eyes met Caroline’s, and she couldn’t help smiling back. It was clearly an old and well-established game. She relaxed back into her chair and glanced at Benedict, who’s attention was all focused on her. His thoughts were entirely masked. Whatever the test had been, she suspected she’d failed. She wondered if he’d lend her a conveyance of some kind to Carlisle, from where she could buy a seat on the mail coach to Edinburgh…
He muttered something below his breath. It sounded like, “I’m going to regret this.” Then his gaze shifted to Rosa. “Show Miss Grey to her chamber, Rosa.”
Without meaning to, Caroline smiled—partly with relief and partly because in spite of herself, the child intrigued her. “Thank you.”
He rose abruptly. “Don’t thank me yet. You and Rosa may see if you suit.” And with that, he simply walked out of the room.
*
Rosa proved to be even more of an enigma than she’d imagined. Although in many ways she seemed younger than her ten years, she was clearly quick-witted and intelligent, always understanding Caroline’s murmured jokes and occasionally sardonic asides. And while she didn’t speak, her face was very expressive, and she supplemented that with her own sign language and with writing things down.
She wrote quickly and clearly and could calculate quite complicated sums. Not that Caroline confined her to lessons that first afternoon. But they took tea together in the school room, and Caroline used the opportunity to discover a little of what her charge could and couldn’t do in the way of formal learning. For the rest of the afternoon, Rosa showed her around the house—which was not huge, but which contained a rather beautiful drawing room, a large library, and a study. The study’s closed door was not breached, and Rosa gave her to understand that Mr. Benedict was working in there.
“What work does he do?” Caroline asked casually.
Rosa made a ring with her finger and forefinger and raised it to her eye before making hasty writing motions with one hand on the other. From which Caroline guessed she meant he studied things under a glass and wrote about them. She didn’t feel much wiser.
When the rain went off, Rosa took her hand and tugged her to the side door, where several coats and cloaks—including her own—hung on hooks.
“You wish to go for a walk?” Caroline guessed. Personally, she had had enough of walking for one day, but she was loathe to disappoint her new pupil. “Do you have stout boots to wear? The ground will be very muddy.”
But Rosa was already climbing into a sturdy pair of walking boots. As Caroline reached for her cloak and bonnet, the wolfhound careened around the corner and lolloped toward them, barking.
“Should we take him?” Caroline asked doubtfully.
“I’m afraid he will insist upon it,” replied a dry male voice.
Caroline spun around to face Mr. Benedict, who strolled up to them wearing an open overcoat and a battered wide-brimmed hat. Without surprise, Rosa ran to seize his hand. The afternoon walk, clearly, was a regular occurrence. Caroline wondered if her presence was required or wanted.
“Heel, Tiny,” Mr. Benedict commanded.
“Tiny?” Caroline repeated breathlessly as the dog scampered to obey.
“Well, he was once,” Mr. Benedict said and opened the door, bowing her out with only a hint of irony.
Laughter bubbled up in her throat as she followed Rosa outside. “Tiny” bounded ahead, Rosa racing after him into the wild undergrowth encroaching over the paths. A few moments later, they bolted out again. Seizing her father and Caroline by the hands, Rosa tugged until they accompanied her back the way she’d come.
To Caroline’s surprise, the stern-looking Mr. Benedict seemed neither surprised nor annoyed to be dragged through untamed grass and thorns. Rosa crouched down and pulled back a tangle of wild rose branches to reveal a single small flower. She turned up her face and smiled at her father and then at Caroline.
“Well, that’s quite a discovery,” Mr. Benedict said warmly. “How is it surviving in there without any sun?”
Rosa grinned and jumped up to run on in search of the dog.
“So,” Mr. Benedict said as they fought their way back to the path. “How peaceful do you find the environs of Haven Hall?”
It was the first indication he’d given that he reme
mbered her, and she couldn’t help flushing with embarrassment.
“Acceptably so,” she replied as calmly as she could. Forcing herself, she met his sardonic gaze. “We have met before today. I didn’t think you remembered.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t count since no one introduced us.”
“If I was rude, I apologize,” she blurted. “I didn’t realize it was your land, and you gave me a fright.”
“Oh, it’s not my land. I only rent the house. For what it’s worth, I don’t recall your rudeness, and would be unlikely to dismiss you for it if I did. How do you find your pupil?”
Caroline blinked at the change of subject. “I find her very bright and thoughtful and knowledgeable for one so young. Clearly, she has been well taught.”
“Now and again,” Mr. Benedict said with a faint curl of his lips. “What of you, Miss Grey? How did you receive your learning?”
“From my own governess,” she replied honestly. “Until I was twelve years old and pursued my own studies.”
“Why?”
“I was lamentably bookish.”
“How fortunate, but as you very well know, I was prying. What happened when you were twelve years old?”
“My father died, leaving us…if not quite destitute, then at least in genteel poverty,” she replied frankly. “A governess was no longer an affordable expense.”
“And now you governess for others. What of the rest of your family?”
“My mother lives quietly in the Scottish Borders with my widowed sister and nephew.”
“And you are their sole support?”
“Not sole, but my earnings are necessary, yes.”
“Then I hope Braithwaite paid you better than most governesses.”
“He did,” she replied calmly.
Rosa, who’d been rushing ahead, ran back with sheer exuberance to skip along beside them, examining interestingly colored leaves she’d swept up on the way. She showed her favorites to her father and to Caroline. Again, Caroline was surprised by how much attention the saturnine Mr. Benedict gave to her childish interests. Whatever the reasons behind Rosa’s refusal to speak, they didn’t appear to include parental neglect.
The Wicked Governess Page 2
