A Mother For His Family

by Susanne Dietze

  The children pulled faces, except for Alex. “Glad I don’t have to ride along this time,” he mumbled as he passed Helena.

  “You’re the heir.” Callum shoved his twin’s shoulder. “You have to do everything horrible. Don’t you wish you were me?”

  Helena chewed her lip.

  John didn’t offer his arm as they walked toward the garden wall, but she didn’t need his support over the even grass. He looked down at her with a smile, which was handsome, but it was also restrained. Businesslike.

  Just like their arrangement.

  “The candidate for governess arrives in a few hours.” With the toe of his black Wellington boot, he prodded a clump of sodden leaves, as if testing whether they concealed a rock.

  “I shall be ready for her.” Helena may be young, but she was no schoolroom miss.

  “Hire her and be done with it. They need consistency, something they’ve lacked since their mother died three years ago. The sooner someone takes charge of the bairns, the better.” His smile faded. “You’ve only met the children, but remember Louisa’s blindness endangers her. Playing outside like this is not at all wise.”

  Helena’s lips parted with an embarrassing pop. “Agnes and I have kept close watch.”

  “You cannot watch everything. Believe me. My child lost her sight and my wife her life because some things cannot be predicted. But with proper care, hazards can be avoided.”

  Helena learned that lesson all too well with Frederick Coles. But this? “Play on grass is not so perilous.”

  “What if a ball strikes her because she cannot see it hurtling toward her? Or she trips and hits her head on a stone?”

  The bite of reproof gnawed at her stomach. “I would never put Louisa in harm’s way.”

  “Not intentionally.” A muscle clenched in his strong jaw. “You mean well, but you do not know how things are done here. Catriona instituted rules to protect the children, and I ask you to follow them.”

  Ask? More like order, when she had done nothing to endanger any of the children. Her hands fisted, but something held her back from arguing further, like a hand of warning on her shoulder. She sucked in a deep, calming breath. John was their father and guardian, and without him, she’d have nothing.

  “Very well. Is there a list of these...rules?” Beyond not playing outside?

  He smiled that pleasant smile again. Attractive, but the look did not reach his eyes. “Not rules, so much as a system. Agnes knows how things are done here, she can help you. Everything will smooth out soon. I look forward to dining with you this evening, so you may tell me about our new governess.”

  She nodded her farewell. “Until tonight, then.”

  He waved to his children and strode the way he had come, leaving the dog behind. Helena watched him go, a mix of frustration and resignation swirling in her chest. How could she be a mother if she had no authority, or if her attempts to better know the children were thwarted by his dead wife’s rules—as relayed by a sullen nursery maid?

  Besides, John could not possibly expect her to twiddle her thumbs and change nothing but the decor in the drawing room.

  Then she sighed and made her way back over the grass.

  “Come, children.” Her voice sounded flat to her ears. “Time to return to the house.”

  * * *

  After seeing to the tenants and the bull, John was met at Comraich’s door by Kerr, the butler. “Welcome home, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” John could hardly remember a time at Comraich without Kerr. The upstanding butler’s dark hair was now dulled to a leaden hue, but his step was vigorous and his dark eyes shone with wit. “Has the post arrived?”

  “It awaits you on the library desk, sir.”

  “Excellent. I shall adjourn there now. Coffee would be most welcome.”

  The butler bowed, and John took the main staircase, mulling over the problematic bull he’d just observed. The animal was a valuable sire, a fine specimen with a long red coat, black-tipped horns and thick fringe over the eyes, but the signs of aggression he’d exhibited toward man and beast alike brought up disconcerting questions. As his stewards were well equipped to handle such issues, he did not normally oversee these types of matters, but since the bull was worth a good deal, he’d been consulted about the possibility of putting the creature down.

  He’d chosen instead to keep the bull separated for observation. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it, but he’d made what he felt was the best choice.

  Like marrying Helena.

  Despite some difficulties at the start, this marriage would work how they both needed it to. Today, Helena would hire the governess and restore balance to the house. He could return to London trusting the children would thrive in safety and harmony, and his household would be in order.

  That, and poor Helena could recover from her dishonor, too.

  He entered the library, and his shoulders relaxed. The two-story room was all wood shelves, scarlet wallpaper and leather, his safe haven. He sat at the desk and picked up the post.

  Three letters. Lord Carvey, his particular friend in the House of Lords, shared news, while Earl Grey sought his opinion, requiring an immediate reply. When Kerr brought the coffee, John nodded his thanks and picked up the final letter. It rested on the silver tray, addressed in an unfamiliar hand. On the reverse, a dollop of red wax, pressed with a falcon stamp, sealed the paper. With the tug of his letter knife, John broke the seal, unfolded the foolscap and took a large sip of coffee.

  The hot beverage burned his throat when he finally managed to swallow it.

  So this was what it was like to receive a blackmail letter. John’s pulse pounded in his ears and fury ran hot under his skin.

  The author—no, the blackmailer—knew about Helena entrusting herself to a young man in London without the benefit of marriage, and her marriage to John to disguise her ruin. And, of course, this rogue would hold silent in exchange for money. The large sum was to be deposited with a London metalsmith, Travers & Sons by name, at an address on the fringes of London’s better neighborhoods. John had heard goldsmiths could be used for monetary transactions between individuals, but he’d never done such a thing.

  Then again, he never imagined he’d be blackmailed.

  Helena must never know about this. If the true reason for her hasty marriage to John was made public, her name and honor would be tarnished. So would her family’s, but John was far less concerned with the Duke and Duchess of Kelworth’s reputations than about Helena’s heart and mind. She’d been through enough.

  He’d vowed to protect her yesterday in the kirk, and he was a man of his word. He’d pay the blackmailer, then—tomorrow he’d write to his man of business in London to deposit the demanded amount. He’d also insist his man investigate who picked up the payment, too, although anonymous blackmailers tended to protect their identities rather well.

  But he wouldn’t tell Helena about this. It would only upset her, and he wouldn’t want her to experience a tenth of what he felt now. Instead of subsiding, his anger increased as the realization that someone was willing to hurt Helena sunk deeper into his brain. A fresh surge of anger coursed through his arms and clenched his fists.

  His hands were steady when he locked the letter in the ornamental box by the inkwell. But they were cold when he laid his head in them to pray.

  Chapter Five

  Helena plopped her forehead into her hands and muttered. “Geography. Mathematics. Art.” One would think a governess would know a fair bit about such subjects.

  Or music. Or manners, something Miss Campbell lacked outright. Oh, she’d not been rude, but once she’d confessed her lack of schooling, she’d wiped her nose on her sleeve and nattered about the benefits of flogging as discipline. Helena’s initial misgivings unfurled into certainty.

  Miss Campbell was not the governess for the children of Com
raich.

  Helena rose from the table in the morning room where she had conducted the interview. There was still plenty of time before her scheduled tour with the housekeeper, Mrs. McGill, so she ascended the stairs to the yellow-papered nursery. In the bright central sitting room, the children gathered around a table eating their noonday meal. Agnes and the children, except Louisa, started to stand at her entrance, but Helena indicated that they stay seated. “Pray do not allow me to interrupt your meal.”

  Sneaking glances at her, they resumed their bites of meat, stewed fruit and a mashed vegetable—well, Callum ate only meat, and Louisa only the vegetable. She leaned forward, her mouth wide like a baby bird’s, while Agnes spooned the pureed vegetable into her mouth. Saucy drips of butter trickled down the child’s chin.

  Helena caught herself chewing her lip, one of Mama’s most despised practices—but the sight of Louisa slurping from a spoon was startling. Five-year-olds fed themselves, did they not?

  She held back the question. If she asked, Agnes would set her jaw and insist, once again, that Louisa “cannae see.” Meanwhile, shabby Tabitha lay on the table. The dog sat on its haunches near Callum’s feet, begging for a morsel. Mama had never permitted toys on the table. Nor did she allow animals in the nursery. Or the house, come to think of it.

  Was Mama unique in her rules? Or were things as Catriona, the previous Lady Ardoch, left them? That was the most important question, for Catriona was still the ruler of Comraich. Helena would have to ask her husband.

  For now, she made a show of looking into the bedchambers off the right and left of the sitting room, called them charming, and then eyed the fare on the children’s plates. “Callum, did you eat any vegetables?”

  “I never do.” Callum grimaced. “Just meat.”

  “I don’t like meat,” Louisa announced.

  “Try a few bites of what you don’t like then, each of you.”

  Callum scowled.

  Helena peered down at the dog. It seemed clean and well mannered, at least. “Does the dog always, er, attend you when dining?”

  Alex shook his head. “Iona is with Papa much of the time. He calls her his lady.”

  Did he? Helena gave in to the dog’s begging look and scratched her behind the ears. Ah, silky. Iona’s stub tail wagged. “Iona is the name of an island, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.” Alex started to lick a finger, but stopped at her shake of the head. “There were monks on Iona in the auld days and Papa liked their stories. But I don’t remember any of them.”

  “Uncle John says the isle is deceptive. ’Tis small but has greatness about it, like our pup.” Margaret set down her fork with a ping of finality. “At least, that’s what uncle said when he named her. She may be little, but she can be a fierce thing.”

  Helena patted Iona’s sleek belly, which the dog had presented for rubbing. “Well, she keeps her fierceness well hidden in the nursery.” If not at all times. The dog was reduced to a puddle of drooling leisure under Helena’s strokes.

  “Did you come to tell us about our new governess?” Callum leaned back, clearly in need of a serviette to his chin. Helena indicated the linen square and nodded. He made a hasty swipe.

  “The candidate did not suit. I didn’t hire her.” At the children’s gaping, a flurry of remorse scuttled through Helena’s stomach. “Fear not. I will find another. How long has it been since you last had a governess?”

  “Two months.” Margaret took a sip from her cup. “It was ever so sudden. Miss McManus left with Mr. Robertson.”

  Helena blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Robertson. Our music master,” Alex explained. “Agnes said they run off together.”

  “Ran off,” Helena corrected. It was far more polite than what she wanted to say, which was to repeat Alex’s remark in an inelegant balk.

  Such a scandal. And it had not been hidden from the children. She brushed dog hair from her hands and stood. She had seen more than a few things that could use improving around here, Catriona’s rules or not. She forced her gaze to avoid Agnes’s, lest the look sizzle.

  “Enjoy your pudding.” She crossed to the door.

  Her husband had been correct. The sooner she hired a governess, the better. Helena married to atone for her sin, but clearly banishment and marriage to a stranger were not enough to appease God. Yet He had provided a blatant opportunity for her to continue to make amends. The children were in desperate need of stability and wholesome example. Surely God would provide.

  With a renewed sense of confidence, she informed one of the footmen—she really must learn their names by the end of the week—to summon Mrs. McGill for their tour. The housekeeper’s arrival was prompt, but her mouth pinched shut like a meat pasty.

  Perhaps Helena had mistaken their appointed time. She smiled at the plump woman of middle years, who carried with her the fresh smell of rosemary. “Do I take you away from an urgent matter?”

  “Not at all, milady.”

  A fudge if ever Helena had heard one. The housekeeper’s sullen expression did not come close to matching her words.

  Helena began to open her mouth to ask if another time was more convenient, or question if something had happened to upset the housekeeper.

  This staff does not respect you yet. Make them. Mama’s words resounded through her mind.

  “Then let us begin.” Heavens, Mama’s voice wasn’t just in her head. It was in her mouth, too. But her tone created the desired effect. Mrs. McGill had the grace to blink, although her mouth remained set in a pout.

  “Aye, milady. Where should you like to start?”

  Helena folded her hands over her waist. She knew how to run a household. Time to prove it. “Anywhere you wish, so long as I view it all.”

  Mrs. McGill stepped back, sending the keys on the silver chatelaine pinned to her waist to jingling. Helena passed her through the threshold.

  If Mrs. McGill thought to bore her by showing her every last nook and cranny, she was in error. Helena found the stillroom to be clean and organized, perfumed with lavender and rosemary drying from hooks, and she expressed her approval of the supply of tinctures, vinegars and balms prepared by the stillroom maid. She exclaimed over the spotless house, and nodded in appreciation at the well-stocked larders and cupboards. Candles, cheese and meats awaited future use, and a closet fragrant with the sweet scent of dried apples coaxed a pang of hunger from Helena’s stomach that was only heightened when they visited the savory-scented kitchen.

  She’d eaten so little in the past few weeks, it was a relief to feel hungry again.

  At tour’s end, she ordered tea delivered to the morning room, along with a small plate to assuage her appetite until dinner.

  “Anything else, milady?”

  Now it was Helena’s turn to frown. No amount of praise could charm a smile from the housekeeper. So do not praise, Mama’s voice said.

  Helena fixed her smile in place. Froze. Prepared to dismiss Mrs. McGill as Mama would.

  But I’m not Mama. Nor am I Catriona. Helena could only be herself, and she wanted the housekeeper’s affinity. Their duties kept them in one another’s spheres, so it was best if they got along.

  Helena let her smile crack. “Nothing further, but I’m grateful for your efforts. Thank you for executing your responsibilities so well.”

  Mrs. McGill’s frown altered into a confused curl.

  After the housekeeper curtsied and left, Helena’s mouth relaxed. She’d done it, soothed the housekeeper’s frown. A rush of triumph shot through her veins.

  It had been a rough first day, perhaps, but not all bad. Louisa tossed a ball, the housekeeper defrosted a degree and her husband would be pleased that she’d dismissed the unskilled applicant for the children’s governess. All in all, she’d accomplished a great deal on her first day as the Lady Ardoch.

  She welcomed the te
a’s arrival and poured herself a full cup. If one day’s success was any indication of the years to come, she’d count herself blissfully married, indeed.

  * * *

  His wife had done what?

  John set his fork onto the rim of the Wedgwood plate with a soft chink. Astounding he hadn’t dropped the utensil altogether. “Pardon me, but I didn’t quite hear that last bit.”

  Helena nibbled her food, unable to answer until she swallowed.

  Across the gleaming mahogany expanse of the dining table, she made the perfect picture of a lady, all berry-colored silk and proper deportment. Her jeweled combs and pale hair glowed in the candlelight, a glittering contrast to the matte of the marine-blue wall behind her. She looked every bit the daughter of a duke. A lovely daughter of a duke.

  John retrieved his fork. He’d known she would be fair of face, of course. Her parents were fine in looks, and apples tended to not fall far from the trees on which they sprouted. But perhaps it might have been preferable if Helena had been, well, plain. It seemed rather disrespectful to Catriona to have married such a beautiful woman.

  John’s grip on the fork tightened. So his new wife was attractive. There was no shame in finding her so. As long as he did not act on an attraction, he would be a man of his word.

  Perhaps these...feelings...had more to do with dining in the company of a lady again. He had not done so in a long time. Longer even than the three years Catriona had been gone. Although his conversation with Helena, who detailed her first day as his wife like his man of business listed cattle prices, was nothing like dining with Catriona.

  She swallowed, patted her lips with a linen serviette and smiled. “I said the ragout of celery is divine. So is the salmon. What a delicate leek sauce.”

  Any taste of leeks lingering on John’s tongue had disintegrated to sawdust. “Before that. About the governess?”

  “Unsuitable was the word I used.” She forked another bite of salmon.

  “How so?” At Helena’s furrowed brow, he lifted a hand. “Perhaps you were not aware how desperate the children’s need is. Our last governess left without warning.”