Lessons in Enchantment

by Patricia Rice

  She saw his struggle and clenched her fingers into her palms. Due to straitened circumstances, she’d often been neglected as a child. She loved learning, but there was only so much she could teach herself after her governess had left. When her father traveled, and after his death, her mother had had more time to attend to Phoebe’s instruction, but then she had been struck ill. Her neighbor, the professor, had brought her books and taught her when he could, but there had been no one to appreciate her achievements.

  Phoebe wouldn’t let Mr. Blair’s wards be ignored or their achievements looked down upon. Children needed adult encouragement to thrive.

  Her employer pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time, and scowled. “Give me a few minutes to send a message. I suppose I can miss a meeting for this occasion. Does this mean you and Mr. Morgan have come to an agreement on the contract?”

  “Oh no, this means I’m missing a meeting with my solicitor so he may read the contract for me,” she said with as much self-importance as she could summon. She’d meet the man on his own terms, by gum.

  His dark eyebrows soared but he had the grace to nod. “In the parlor in fifteen minutes?”

  After dispatching a servant to cancel his meeting and joining Lady Phoebe and his wards at the tea table, Drew wished he’d spared a minute to spruce up.

  Despite having spent the afternoon romping in the park, Lady Phoebe smelled of sunshine and roses. Her shirtwaist was no longer crisp—he dutifully attempted not to notice her round bosom. Her abundant chestnut hair had become somewhat disheveled, but the tousled look seemed more inviting than neatly styled curls.

  But mostly, she exuded high spirits and energy that made him feel old and staid.

  “We have shown the pine trees to Piney,” she announced, pouring the tea with expertise.

  “He does not approve,” Clare said with more vigor than he’d heard her use since her arrival.

  “There is no hollow for his nest,” Enoch explained, not to be outdone. He practically swallowed his quarter sandwich whole and reached for another.

  “Piney needs a box,” Cat declared. “So does Kitty.”

  Kitty? Drew glanced at his new—yet uncontracted—governess. . . tutor. Blue eyes danced with mischief.

  Unused to servants, refusing to fall for blue eyes, he practiced being stern. “Who is Kitty?”

  “We couldn’t call her Cat. That’s my name,” his ward said complacently.

  The twins were frail four-year-olds with tawny hair like their mother’s. Drew had scarcely heard them speak two words before Lady Phoebe’s arrival. They didn’t smile or bounce now. They just regarded him with those big, shadowed, blue eyes and waited.

  “The children say you have a workshop,” Lady Phoebe added expectantly.

  Enlightenment ensued. Drew almost sputtered into his tea. Use his highly technical workshop and his valuable time to build a foolish crate? He congratulated himself on a swift recovery. “You wish me to build boxes for a weasel and an invisible kitten?”

  “She’s not invisible,” Enoch said, politely holding up his plate for a refill. “Clare tried to make herself invisible like a ghost, but it didn’t work.”

  “I don’t think we can make ourselves invisible,” Lady Phoebe said sympathetically. “We’ll need to consult the Librarian. I shall write to her this evening.”

  The Librarian? Hearing the capital L quite distinctly, Drew chewed his sandwich and listened. For young children, his wards seemed remarkably well behaved, although Cat was getting a little squirmy. He kept a wary eye on her.

  “Do you know if their mother’s journals were sent to the Malcolm library?” the lady asked.

  “I didn’t know they existed,” he admitted. A frisson of fear followed. Could Letitia have left a journal?

  “Will you stay with us tonight, my lady?” Clare asked. “Mama can’t always visit.”

  Since her mother was quite dead, Drew swallowed his sandwich wrong and coughed.

  The question didn’t faze Lady Phoebe. “I’m sorry, not tonight. I played with you today instead of visiting my solicitor. I shall move my boxes in once your guardian and I have settled our business. You must sing if you are afraid or lonely. Do you know any brave songs?”

  The conversation continued in this inane but edifying fashion until all the food was consumed and the children began to look weary.

  Rather than let the flibbertigibbet governess escape, Drew called for the nursemaid to lead them off for baths and bed.

  Lady Phoebe rose as if prepared to depart. Drew pointed at her chair. “Sit, my lady. Explain, please.”

  She sat, folded her hands in her lap, and demurely cast her lashes down so he couldn’t read her expression. “Yes, sir?”

  He wasn’t entirely certain if she was questioning his command or his title.

  “One of the clauses of our contract expressly states the children will not be removed from the house without my permission,” he said sternly.

  “I have not yet read your contract, and I will most certainly strike that clause before signing it.” She spoke matter-of-factly, without a hint of ire. “Children cannot be confined to four walls like animals in a cage, especially ones with minds as active as theirs.”

  Hard to argue when he felt the same, but there were more important considerations. “They cannot be associated with this house.” The whole point of bringing them to Edinburgh was to hide them. He’d been successful until this intrepid female came along. “Take them in the carriage to the gardens, if you must, but either Mr. Morgan or I must accompany you.”

  Her chin shot up. There was the blue blaze of defiance he expected.

  “Are you sure you’re not ashamed of them? Or perhaps you don’t wish your suit hampered by children?”

  Well, there was that, too, which was why he’d mentioned the public gardens. But his main reason was their safety. “My affairs are none of yours,” he asserted. He was as angry at himself as with her. He ought to be able to handle this conversation with more authority.

  “Then perhaps this arrangement will not suit. If I cannot be in charge of their education, you may as well hire someone more suited to servitude.”

  And there it was—she wasn’t a servant. She would never obey his orders.

  Drew ran his hand through his hair while he sought words. “I have no good way to put this.” That was an understatement. “But we have some reason to believe their mother’s death was not an accident. I’m not yet ready to let down my guard against the potential of assassins following them here.”

  Her eyes widened into huge saucers. “Oh my. You should have told me from the outset.”

  Dung beetles. Here it came. His one chance of obtaining an understanding governess, and he’d ruined it. He waited for her to throw her napkin at him and stalk off.

  “I’ll have to enlist Raven.” Looking as if she was running mental lists, she stood and rang for the maid. “I cannot possibly move in this evening, but I’ll leave my pets. Piney and Raven are trained at least, and the children are acquainted with them. They can learn to heed their warnings. We’ll start to work on the kitten and any other creatures I find in the morning.”

  She asked the maid for her coat as Drew rose in confusion. “Train? Other creatures?”

  “Do nae fash yersel’,” she said absent-mindedly. “You’ll not notice until it matters.”

  He doubted that, but if she was reduced to dialect, her mind was obviously not on him—as his was on her. He’d best remove temptation from his presence.

  “The nights come early. Let me take you home in my carriage.” Drew tried to keep the question out of his voice and off his tongue. Sometimes, restraint was the better part of valor.

  She raised her expressive eyebrows. “I’m not certain a fancy carriage is safe in the close, but I suppose you may let me off in High Street, if my penny farthing will fit on back.”

  “It will fit. And I’ll return in the morning to help with your boxes.”

  Yes, he mentall
y shouted. Yes, she was coming! He could have his life back!

  Not until he had delivered her to her aunts’ old but very respectable townhouse did he realize there had been no further mention of a contract.

  Six

  “Oh, my, with all that dark hair, it’s a good thing he doesn’t wear a mustache!” Olivia, one of Phoebe’s distant cousins, said with a laugh the next morning. Still wearing mourning, she peered from the upper story window at the gentleman on the doorstep below.

  “He is very handsome.” Merry—still another of Phoebe’s extended family—sounded envious.

  “And twice your age,” Phoebe scolded, pulling on her gloves. “Mr. Blair already has three children on his hands and doesn’t need a fourth.”

  Merry stuck her tongue out at her. “I shall be seventeen next month. And I’m already teaching three children.”

  “Well, I shall be certain to recommend you should I not suit the position. Mr. Blair and I do not see eye-to-eye on many levels.”

  “Including height,” Olivia said with a laugh. “If you did not wear those ridiculous boots, you’d barely reach his shoulder.”

  “My boots are useful. One of the advantages men have over us is size. I merely seek to equalize my position.” Phoebe picked up her carpet bag and glanced around to see if she’d forgotten anything.

  Servants were already carrying her trunk downstairs. Her cousins’ nonsense was a welcome distraction from the knowledge that she was making a giant, possibly irrevocable, step into a frightening new world. She tried very hard not to shake in her maligned boots.

  She had to remember she was a woman of the world who had a meeting with a solicitor over contracts and lawsuits.

  “Phoebe kicks and stomps,” Merry explained to her more-sheltered cousin. “You’ve never seen her in action.”

  “The streets are sometimes rough and not everyone knows me.” Phoebe adjusted her hat. “Sometimes, a polite introduction isn’t sufficient.”

  Olivia covered her mouth. Phoebe didn’t worry if she concealed laughter or horror. Her cousin had lived gently in the country until circumstances had changed, and she’d sought refuge at the school. Life happened, as they all knew too well. Life kept happening. They had to adjust or starve.

  Finding a worthy goal helped push past fear. She would earn her own education.

  Leaving her cousins to watch from windows, Phoebe sailed down the stairs, hugged her aunts, and followed Mr. Blair to his waiting carriage. He’d managed to turn it around at the bottom of the close instead of forcing her to walk to High Street, as she’d feared.

  She tried not to imagine what he thought of the neighborhood. At least her aunts’ home looked reasonably respectable. No clothing hung on a line in this lane.

  “I built boxes,” he said stiffly as he helped her to a seat.

  It took her a moment to follow the path of his thoughts. He’d built boxes for the pets! “That is most excellent, thank you.” Phoebe waved at a carter passing by, then admired a trinket a child ran up to show her. She’d known these people all her life. The back lanes of the medieval town were her home.

  Somehow, for the sake of Mr. Blair’s orphaned wards, she must make a new home. She tried to console herself by knowing she wouldn’t be far from the veterinary schools, but she was feeling discouraged about them teaching her how to help the small animals she found.

  “And kind of you to fulfill the requests of children,” she acknowledged. “I know you cannot understand my relationship with animals, so it is generous of you to listen to your wards and their concerns for pets.”

  “Letitia, the children’s mother, had the Sight. She saw danger. We didn’t listen,” he said gruffly. “I try to listen now.” His tone was remorseful.

  “The Sight is difficult to interpret. Knowing there is danger doesn’t provide sufficient guidance,” she said when he climbed up and took the reins. “What happened?”

  He sat silent for a moment, as if unwilling to explain. He shook the leathers and put the horse in motion before speaking. “Letitia and Simon were in a carriage. They’d meant to visit an ailing tenant and do a little shopping in the village. The children went with them everywhere, but they were feverish that morning and were left behind. The axle gave out going downhill. Simon swore it was cut. Letitia was thrown from the carriage while he struggled to halt the horses.”

  “Praise all that is holy,” Phoebe whispered. “Either the saints watched over the children, or Letitia heeded her instinct.”

  “That’s what Simon said, once he was coherent. He blames himself, which is patently ridiculous.” Mr. Blair sounded more angry than sorrowful.

  “Why would he believe it was no accident?” Phoebe hadn’t been in a carriage in ages. Distracted by the man beside her, the view, and the tragic story, she didn’t know which way to turn. New Town sprawled below as the horse sedately clopped down the hill. What would it be like if the axle broke as they turned toward the bridge?

  She gripped the side, just in case.

  “The carriage was new,” Mr. Blair said. “Simon had checked it over carefully and driven it himself before allowing his family in it. He claims they hit no rut to cause the rod to snap. You’d have to know Simon to understand his caution.”

  “But his whole family could have been killed,” she cried, understanding the gravity. “Why would anyone wish to harm children?”

  Phoebe watched as her employer’s handsome visage darkened into a frown. He’d be ferocious in defense of what he considered his. The notion caused an inexplicable thrill. She knew too few people with that core of strength.

  “I tell you all this only so you will understand the danger. Simon is having difficulties with his neighbors,” he answered grudgingly. “He’s a fair employer, unlike some I could name. He is part of my investment consortium. We planned to build an iron manufactory on his land that would use his coal with a better return than the current market. There are people who despise factories. And other mine owners who lost workers because they resist Simon’s willingness to pay for good labor. I do not claim to understand such ignorance, but neighboring landowners resent him. The bank recently offered to buy him out to prevent us from continuing with the project.”

  He expertly steered the horses over the bridge and into the wider—safer—streets of the new town. “Industry must come if we are to feed families. If nothing else, the Clearances proved that agriculture only feeds landowners.”

  Phoebe nodded a grim understanding, even as she admired the shiny new shops and mansions they passed. “People resist change. It’s human nature. But I doubt that is reason for killing, unless one is quite mad.”

  He frowned but acknowledged that. “It almost has to go back to money, doesn’t it? But why not just kill Simon without risking innocents?”

  “Well, they have effectively killed him if he’s drinking himself to death.” She shot him a hasty glance. “I’m sorry. Servants gossip.”

  He shrugged. “It’s common knowledge that’s the reason the children are with me.”

  Something in the way he said that caused Phoebe to pause. If their father was anything like Mr. Blair— then there was more going on than met the eye. “Did the children bring anyone from home with them?”

  “The nursemaid. She’s an old family retainer, and they needed some semblance of familiarity.”

  “Then it is not likely they are in danger here—unless the children know something they shouldn’t.” She had to say it. Her own family had been harmed in too many ways because of what they knew or could do.

  “You and your kind are downright spooky. I do not claim to understand,” Mr. Blair said with a sigh. “Clare took an instant dislike to one of the stableboys. He’d been with the family for years. She yelled at him. You’ve met Clare. She does not yell. He left shortly after Clare refused to go anywhere near him.”

  Phoebe picked at her gloves, fearing what a gifted child might see to cause this reaction. “It’s hard to say what she sees or how much she und
erstands. He may have just kicked a horse when he thought no one was looking.” She knew what it was like not to be understood or not to be believed. Understanding a gifted child took patience.

  That a killer might believe Clare knew something seemed hard to accept, but if her mother had sensed danger. . . It was possible someone might be superstitious enough to fear the children as well. “Or, I suppose, very bad men might think harming the children will drive their father completely mad or drive him from his land.”

  Mr. Blair considered her notions as he guided the rig down the carriage alley. “Either is possible. We’re searching for the stableboy. He certainly had the opportunity to tamper with the axle and his disappearance is suspect.”

  “Have you looked for their mother’s journals? Most Malcolms keep them.”

  His dark eyebrows drew down in perplexity or a frown. “I have no notion. I can’t imagine Letitia could write anything that predicted her death or a possible killer.”

  “We often write our fears and the reason for them. There might be clues.” Phoebe turned over other possibilities in her mind. The children needed a different sort of defense than the ones she’d erected around her mother’s home. “I will begin training the animals at once. I may make some odd requests. I would appreciate it if you would inform your servants that they are for a special project.”

  As he stopped the vehicle in the carriage lane behind his house, he shot her a peculiar look, the kind with which she was most familiar when she said things like that. But he didn’t mock.

  The carriage swayed as he climbed down. An aging stable man staggered up to take the reins, and Mr. Blair offered his gloved hand to assist Phoebe. “You will not take the children out again?”

  She accepted his assistance and took a moment to admire her new employer’s broad chest and masculine scent before replying regretfully, “No, I make no promises. They must learn to navigate their surroundings and be aware of dangers. Surrounding them in cotton batting only turns them into mice.”

  She walked off, leaving him to deal with her bags.