Perfect. The very reply she wanted. “I wonder. Has anyone thought of riding lessons for Jeremy?”
“Lord Lindenhurst hasn’t, to be certain.” The groom’s tone hardened somewhat. “The boy doesn’t even have his own pony.”
“But he might learn to ride one.” She gave him a tentative smile.
Regan grinned in return. “He just might at that.”
“And now I must get back to my charge.” She stopped just short of nodding at him. He was a servant, after all, and she might be just slightly above him in the hierarchy these days. There was no need to become overly familiar. That sort of behavior had led her into trouble in the past.
She pushed the memories aside and hurried from the stables, up the servants’ stairs to the nursery. Outside the door, she hesitated, unsure of her reception. She’d have to convince Jeremy to try lessons after his constitutional had been cut short. Once again, she saw in her mind the way the boy had regarded his father—only to be rebuffed—and her heart turned over. The poor, poor dear. And what sort of father treated his own flesh and blood so coldly?
She’d have to set those thoughts aside for now and get to work, if she were going to make any difference in the situation. If only she could convince Lindenhurst to keep her on, but she’d have to meet his requirements. No time like the present.
Setting her fingers on the handle, she plastered a smile on her face—the sort she generally reserved for the kinds of social situations she’d rather avoid—and pulled.
Her cheery greeting echoed through the room. Jeremy sat in the corner lining up his soldiers once again. He didn’t even flinch at her entrance.
She crossed to him, and still he did not acknowledge her. No matter, though.
“I’ve just had a talk with your papa, and he’s told me he’d like you to learn to write your name.” As she said the words, she smiled all the harder, just like she used to when her aunt cornered her and launched into one of her interminable tales. Smile and nod. But now she only had to smile and smile some more in the hope that Jeremy would catch on.
His troops were apparently far more interesting than the prospect of scrawling his name over a sheet of paper, for all the heed he paid her. He muttered something under his breath, while setting the final soldier in place.
“What was that?”
“I said, I don’t give a fig what Father wants. It’s never anything I can do.”
She knelt beside him, but he still didn’t look at her. “Did Miss Crump try to teach you to write your name?”
“Miss Crump and Miss Barton and Miss Bowman and Miss Ramsey and all the others. Doesn’t matter, though. I can’t do it.”
Well, this was going swimmingly. “Naturally, you can’t do it. You’ve no pen and paper.” While he’d been studiously ignoring her, she’d had a chance to glance about the room and ascertain the lack of writing materials. “I’ll be right back with some.”
A proper governess would no doubt have summoned a servant for such a task, but she needed to come up with a strategy to convince the boy to cooperate. One would think earning his father’s approval might be enough, but he’d clearly tried and failed in the past.
And Cecelia had no idea how to secure his complicity.
At the entrance to Lindenhurst’s study, she ran into Mrs. Carstairs. Not that Cecelia had planned to snoop any further into Lindenhurst’s personal papers, but here, she knew, she’d find what she was seeking.
The housekeeper, however, barred the way. “His lordship has ordered me to ensure you do not enter his private rooms. Which include her ladyship’s bedchamber. No one goes in there but the maids, to clean them. Do I make myself clear?”
Cecelia nearly dropped a curtsey. “Yes,” she lied. Lady Lindenhurst’s rooms? Why, when Lindenhurst’s wife was no longer in any position to make use of them?
“His lordship’s study is also forbidden.”
“Yes, I understand, only…” She chewed at her lower lip. “I was hoping to find some writing materials. His lordship requires the boy to write his name.”
“I see. Well, I might find you some, but I’ve no earthly idea what good you think it’ll do.”
Drat, the woman sounded just as gloomy as Jeremy himself. “Nevertheless, those are my instructions.” She waved a hand in a manner that used to send servants scurrying. “So if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course not. Wait here a moment.” She disappeared into Lindenhurst’s study—not scurrying exactly. The woman moved at a ponderous gait in keeping with her bulk.
Presently, she returned with a pen, a pot of ink, and several sheets of paper. Heavy vellum. Quality stock, Cecelia ascertained the moment she took the sheets in hand. She could use some of this and write to Miss Crump for advice, or she could if she had the woman’s direction. “Would you happen to know what agency Lord Lindenhurst used to hire the other governesses?”
Lindenhurst will toss you out before a message has a chance to reach London—that is, if you can convince him to frank a letter for you.
She pushed the annoying voice in her head aside. Blasted reason. She had no use for it. She must move forward with the intention of retaining this position permanently. As for the postage, she’d find her way around that when the time came.
“I expect I can find that out for you, miss.”
“Thank you.” And now she’d opened the door to ask about Jeremy.
When Cecelia didn’t turn for the nursery right away, the housekeeper blinked. “Will there be anything else? I have duties to attend.”
“Mrs. Carstairs, might I ask you what lies between Lord Lindenhurst and his son that he won’t even refer to the boy by name?”
The housekeeper pursed her lips. “You might ask, but it’s more than my job is worth to discuss such things. Lord Lindenhurst cannot abide gossip.”
“But surely it’s not a matter of gossip in my case. If I understood what Jeremy’s problems entail, I could educate him better.”
Mrs. Carstairs stared hard at her for a moment. “And which problems would those be?”
Cecelia cocked her head. Surely the other woman wasn’t about to deny the obvious. “Unless he has something to hold on to, he cannot seem to walk more than two steps without falling. Has he always been this way?”
Once again, Mrs. Carstairs rolled her lips inward, possibly reining in the words that could lead to her dismissal. “Do you realize it’s only me and the butler who have been on staff since before the boy was born?”
“You’ve been here so long?” Cecelia didn’t recall this woman or the butler from years before, but perhaps these servants had come along with Lindenhurst’s marriage.
“I have. He’s replaced everyone else, some more than once, from the scullery maids to the stable boys to the cook and all for discussing matters he wants kept quiet. If he sends me packing as well, I won’t find another position. Not at my age.” That reply, along with Mrs. Carstairs’s expression, told Cecelia a great deal.
“Why should Lord Lindenhurst forbid anyone discussing his son’s condition when it’s so clear to anyone with eyes?”
“Is it not enough to know that he prefers no one discuss it and leave it at that?”
Cecelia crossed her arms. “No, it is not. Not when anything you can tell me might be helpful in the performance of my job. The job his lordship hired me to do. Please,” she added when the housekeeper’s expression remained immutable. “You are not the only one who cannot afford to lose her position here. Tell me as little as you like, but give me something to go on. For the boy’s sake, if nothing else. This endless parade of governesses cannot be good for him. When will he ever learn he can trust in someone?”
Something in Mrs. Carstairs’s expression thawed, if only somewhat. But thank goodness for that small concession. The older woman craned her neck and glanced up and down the hall. “Why don’t we take a spot of tea? Unless I’m keeping you from more pressing duties?” She added that last all too hopefully.
“My position here
is already precarious.” But she still had until her brother’s visit at least before she’d have to pack her meager belongings. “A spot of tea shouldn’t change a thing.”
Mrs. Carstairs’s rooms lay near the kitchens at the end of a long passage next to the butler’s pantry. Her chamber was dark, being below ground level, but she had a small sitting area in addition to a comfortable-looking bed sporting a cheery coverlet. Cecelia took a seat in the second chair, a wooden contraption that swayed alarmingly when she sat in it.
Presently, the scullery maid appeared on the threshold bearing a pot of tea, milk pitcher, and two cups on a tray. Mrs. Carstairs quelled the question in the maid’s eyes with a severe look. She may as well have voiced aloud the order to say nothing to anyone. Then she took her time stirring sugar and milk into her cup. “I’d offer you scones, but Cook is out of the habit of baking such. His lordship never receives anyone who might ask for them.”
Surprising they’d been given actual tea, since such luxuries were normally reserved for guests. But then, Cecelia couldn’t recall Lindenhurst ever being much for tea. Not as long as there was port, brandy, or wine to be had.
Cecelia took a tentative sip from her cup. The liquid inside was scalding hot. “That’s quite all right.” She was far more interested in what the housekeeper might tell her.
Mrs. Carstairs leaned forward in her seat. “If anyone asks, we did not have this conversation.”
“What of the scullery maid?”
“I’m not so concerned about the likes of her. She knows better than to talk. The master asks if you’ve been discussing anything with me, the answer is no. You do not let on that anyone’s said anything.”
“Absolutely.” Cecelia was good at keeping secrets. She had enough of her own; though she wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Carstairs that.
“Now, you asked about the boy, and I can tell you. I remember the day quite clearly. He was just a little thing, not even two years old, and he loved nothing better than running about the grounds as far as he could get.” She paused and sipped at her tea as if she had the entire afternoon and into evening to tell this story.
“His mama would take him along on her constitutionals. Now, you might think such a young child would complain about a long walk, but that boy never did. Well, that winter it were cold. Colder than usual. Enough that the well froze and we had trouble drawing enough water for the household. The pond froze, too, but as cold as it got, her ladyship could not keep that child indoors. It would have been better if she did.”
Cecelia set her cup aside. Somehow the cold of that winter had crept into this underground room, settling uncomfortably along her spine. “Good heavens, what happened?”
“The only person that rightly knows for certain cannot tell us. If she ever had a chance to tell his lordship, he doesn’t hold with people asking. But there was some sort of accident. Next thing I knew, people were shouting for help and running for that pond. It’s not close to the house.”
“I remember.” All too well. “I’ve been invited here as a guest a time or two.”
“Before I came on as housekeeper, then.”
“Before Lord Lindenhurst married.”
“At any rate.” Mrs. Carstairs also pushed her cup aside. “Somehow the boy got out on that pond, and it were cold, but not so cold the ice was strong enough to hold him. He fell through.”
Cecelia pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh dear.”
“Went under, he did. Went under and stayed there. His mama, God rest her, tried to get the boy out, but she couldn’t do it. Soaked herself through and sickened as a result. And the boy…We were all sure he’d follow his mama to the grave. He lay there insensible for the longest time. It was days and days before he came out of it. Once he got his strength back, we could all see he wasn’t the same. Before the accident, he was hale and hearty as you please, running everywhere. Happy. But after, well, you see how he is now.”
“Good heavens,” Cecelia said faintly. There wasn’t much more she could say in the face of such a tragic tale, even if it was overly late to call on divine intervention.
Mrs. Carstairs nodded. “Hasn’t been the same since. His lordship, neither. He fair well worshipped the ground his wife walked on, he did. A body has to wonder if he’d have rather lost the child and kept his wife.”
“And where was Lord Lindenhurst while all this was happening?” Heaven help her, she suspected, but she may as well know the entire truth.
“What with his leg plaguing him, he couldn’t walk so far. He had to wait for a horse to be saddled. By the time he got to the pond, it was too late.”
Chapter Six
Dear Miss Crump,
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Cecelia Sanford, and I am Master Jeremy Blakewell’s latest governess. In my short experience with the boy, I have noted his keen interest in military tactics, and he has informed me that you taught him about such things. It seemed prudent for me to contact you to ask if you had any other notions of what might capture the child’s fancy. The knowledge strikes me as vital if I am to perform my duties to the satisfaction of Lord Lindenhurst.
Absently, Cecelia rubbed the feather end of her quill against her cheek, while she considered the wisdom of asking Miss Crump what she knew of the boy’s stumbling, both the literal and his difficulty recalling certain words. If the governess had spent even a day in the boy’s company, she must have noted them, but had she been employed here long enough to inquire about their origin? And might those inquiries, rather than her failure to educate Jeremy, have led to her dismissal?
No, Cecelia had best not say anything, at least for now. If she absolutely must approach Lindenhurst for his frank on her letter, he might insist on reading it. If she could pass the point where correspondence between her and Miss Crump became routine, she might slip in a hint or two in a missive.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy’s question broke in on her musings.
She suppressed a smile. She’d returned to the nursery and set herself up to write this note at the small table while the boy continued to ignore her. Or pretended to. Once more, she’d bet the child’s natural curiosity would prod him until he approached. Seemingly, her wager had paid off.
“I’m writing a letter to Miss Crump. Perhaps you’d like me to include a few lines of your own.”
He tilted his head and looked at her from the corner of his eye. There’s a trick here somewhere, but I can’t quite work out what it is. The expression was plain on his face as if he’d spoken the words aloud. Once again, curiosity won the battle with his natural suspicion of all things educational. “What do you mean?”
“If you’d like to say something to Miss Crump, you can tell me the words, and I’ll write them down for you.” She tickled his cheek with the feather, eliciting a giggle. “I have the feeling you liked Miss Crump, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, the movement too casual to be genuine. “She was all right.”
Cecelia closed her hand about the quill before she dropped it altogether and touched his jaw. He’d gone through so many governesses, he no longer knew whom to trust. He barely had the chance to get to know one governess before someone else replaced her. Had any of them had time to win him over? And his own father—the one person left who might show the boy some affection—remained distant. No wonder Jeremy was reluctant to form attachments.
Heavens, what a horrid situation. Mrs. Carstairs’s story had left her with a firm picture in her mind. The snow-covered grounds, the pond, a jagged hole in the ice, and a pale-faced toddler lying insensible next to his mother. Servants scurrying about, trying desperately to revive the pair of them. Lindenhurst riding up on his chestnut gelding, too late.
She shook the image away, the better to concentrate on her charge as he was now. She couldn’t touch him yet. The sort of wariness that arose from having one’s trust violated was a familiar companion. Once Jeremy decided she was safe, he’d come to her. Until then, she must maintain her distance.
“Perhaps if you write to her, she’ll reply. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Another shrug. “Maybe.” But a small gleam in his eye betrayed the eagerness he tried to hide behind a façade of indifference. “I don’t know how to write, though.”
He added that last almost cautiously as if he’d finally realized the trick.
“I won’t make you learn if you don’t want to, although it might be easier in the long run. Someday I might be too busy to transcribe a letter for you. But that’s up to you to decide. For now I can write whatever you want.” To prove the point, she dipped her quill in the pot of ink.
He stared at the words she’d written across the top of the page in a neat hand. “You already have something there.”
“Well, yes, those are my words, but if you like, we can start a new letter that’s all your own.” She pulled out a second sheet of the precious paper. Well she knew how costly such heavy stock was, but Lindenhurst could dashed well eat the expense if he insisted on his son gaining a proper education. “When we start a letter, we write dear and then add the name of the person we’re addressing, like this.”
She spelled out Dear Miss Crump at the top of the page. With his eyes, Jeremy followed every loop and swirl of her pen. Good. If she could capture his curiosity, she might convince him to try it himself.
“Miss Barton says it’s like a picture,” he said.
“It’s even more like a code.” Gracious, where had that inspiration come from? If she could turn this into a game, she might hook him. “We’re writing down secret information that will help his majesty’s troops. Now, what would you like to say?”
“I have a new governess now. Her name is Miss Sanford. She wants me to do lessons, too, but I’d rather pretend we’re finding out the French army’s secrets. So she’s having me write this…message. No, that’s not the right word.”
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