Though her head felt light with relief, she kept her face placid. “Go sit down, please.”
Louise stalked past. Her hair hung in disarray and though the lighting in the room was dim, Henrietta was quite sure there might be a sunburn on her nose. Which would result in freckles. Unseemly for a girl whose debut was in only five years. Lemon juice might lighten the marks, perhaps, though Henrietta doubted its efficacy.
“I’m hungry.” Louise plopped onto the sofa, seemingly unaware of its cold comfort.
“Stay here until I return.” Henrietta used the tone she’d employed on wounded soldiers. Like them, Louise looked up at her wide-eyed and obeyed.
Swirling around, Henrietta quickly went to Dominic’s study and knocked.
“Yes?”
She pushed the door open. The new steward looked up from his seat across Dominic’s desk. He seemed to be a studious type, spectacles perched on the brim of a well-structured nose. His tweed coat lent his slight build a conservative intelligence that she could appreciate.
“My lord,” she said, gaze skittering to the enigmatic man sitting behind the desk. “I apologize for interrupting, but might I have a word with you?”
If he was surprised by her boldness, he did not show it. A curt nod, and he was walking toward her, tall and confident, that dimple present in his cheek, though she could not fathom why. She certainly had not been able to smile the entire afternoon.
She went into the hall and he followed. Disarmed by his nearness, she nevertheless held her ground. “Louise has returned.”
He expelled a deep and hearty breath that was filled with relief. “Where is she?”
“I told her to stay in the study.”
“We will go to her now.”
She nodded, respect and a warmth welling within her at his obvious care for his niece.
Dominic kneaded the back of his neck. Stressed, no doubt, as being responsible often provoked the urge to commit to something or someone other than oneself. Still, her heart softened at his evident distress.
“I know you are but the governess—”
“I shall stand with you,” she said firmly.
He nodded. “Give me a moment.”
He was gone but two minutes, and then they walked to the drawing room. She could not help but be aware of his presence beside her. Strong and smelling of some exotic cologne that no doubt cost a month’s salary. But she could not fault him for the expenditure, when the result was so very pleasing.
They found Louise sitting exactly where Henrietta had left her. On the couch, scowling. Her eyes flickered up to them. “I’m starving.”
Henrietta drew in a deep breath, suddenly realizing that this would be so much more difficult than she had anticipated. She glanced up at Dominic and found strength in the fact that his jaw was firm, his mouth steady. Resolute.
“Louise, running away when you’re upset and not coming home until all hours is worrisome to us,” he said sternly.
Louise crossed her arms.
“I have spent the day—” Henrietta’s voice broke. Horrified, she wet her lips and swallowed hard, all her well-planned words sticking in her throat. “What I mean to say is that your uncle and I have been extremely worried.”
“He doesn’t care.” Louise looked pointedly at Dominic, her eyebrows forming tight little ves.
“You missed dinner,” he said. “Tonight you shall have bread and water in your room. Tomorrow there will be extra lessons to make up for what you missed today. If you run off and miss dinner again, you will be confined to your room for a week. Is that understood?”
Louise shot to her feet. “You can’t do this. I can do whatever I want.” The high, shaky quality of her voice betrayed the challenge in her eyes.
Henrietta longed to go to her then, to wrap her in her arms and assure her. But this was a matter for her uncle, and suddenly she knew that her presence could only exacerbate this battle of wills.
“My lord, perhaps I should go?” she offered quietly, hopefully, and to her great relief, he dipped his head in agreement.
She brushed out of the room, her shoulders tight and straight. A most terrible consternation crippled her from within. On her way to her room, Jacks stopped her to give her a letter.
Mail from her uncle.
She gripped the rail on the way to her room, for the first time in several weeks her lungs protesting the exertion. Perhaps Uncle William’s words would take her mind from her worries. From Louise and Dominic.
But the letter did not help.
Her uncle asked after her health. He shared news of a Mr. William Charles Wells, who had read his scientific paper on natural changes in humanity over the course of time.
He did not invite her to join him.
She prayed while readying for sleep, but her stomach drooped and even the hot tea she sent for, sprinkled with her own special blend of ginger, did not ease the knots within.
The feeling of disquiet continued. The small room she’d been given, rectangular and comfortable, was beside Louise’s. A nanny’s room, but suitable for a governess.
Practical and generous.
Why wasn’t she happier?
Her mind replayed the day. What could she have done differently? Said? In the future, she did not wish to inspire the raw feelings she felt now. She liked thinking. She did not care to indulge in emotions.
The cool sheets hugged her body. Her pillow, feather-soft, framed her face as she stared at moonlight sluicing through her curtains to illuminate her quilted figure. The quietness did nothing to ease the hollow, freezing ache that pulsated beneath her ribs.
For perhaps the first time since she was fifteen, since the night she watched her father disappear into that thick, black billowing cloud of smoke that had been their home, she felt utterly alone.
Chapter Eleven
“Dom. Dom.” Someone shook him, prying him from his dreams. He moaned, shrugging off the offensive hand and curling back into his blankets.
“Dom, wake up.”
The blankets that cocooned him were ripped off. He bolted up. Louise leaned over him, moonlight highlighting the fear in her wide eyes. She grabbed at his shirt, tugging him to the edge of the bed.
“What is it?” He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, to make sense of his niece in his room. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Henrietta.” No tears on her face, but they clogged her voice, thickening the consonants. “She’s screaming in her sleep, and I can’t wake her up.”
Dominic scrambled out of bed, his mind hardly able to process her words. They made no sense. That was not like Henrietta.
Louise handed him his night robe. He tied it quickly and rushed out of the room, grabbing a sconce to light their path. Louise had come to his room in the dark, a sure sign of her panic.
When they neared his niece’s room, she beckoned him in. Henrietta’s door was only a few feet down, but rather than risking it locked and thus taking more time to reach her, he padded after his niece to their connecting door. No screams came from the room, just a soft sound, like that of a mewling kitten.
Louise put her finger to her mouth. The light from his lamp flickered across her strained features. They crept into Henrietta’s room.
It took a moment to orient himself. He’d never been in this room before. Had not realized how small and ugly it was. Why, he could practically touch each wall if he stretched out both arms. His gaze shifted to the small form huddled on the narrow bed that could hardly be called a bed. It looked more like a cot.
Louise was already near Henrietta. “She’s crying.” And her voice sounded so forlorn that his chest compressed into a tight little space. He moved forward, gently pressing Louise to the side.
He bent over Henrietta. There were indeed silent tears streaking her cheeks. A steady stream. The rest of her—the proud
and small nose, the rosebud lips—was relaxed in sleep. Whatever nightmare she’d suffered had passed and it seemed silly to wake her now. Just as he drew back though, she moaned, and then her lids squeezed into pained exclamations and her mouth opened on a silent scream.
Wordlessly he handed the lantern to Louise. He slid his hands over Miss Gordon’s shoulders, turning her toward him.
“Henrietta,” he whispered fiercely. “Wake up. Wake up, Henrietta.”
Her head thrashed, and for the first time, he wondered if this is what others might feel if they saw him have a seizure. To witness someone else’s duress, to be helpless against it, was torturous.
He continued the gentle shaking. “Henrietta. It’s Dominic. Wake up.”
Her body stiffened, for one terrible moment growing horribly still, as though she’d stopped breathing. And then she melted against him, a long shuddering breath escaping as she slowly awakened. Her eyes fluttered. Opened to reveal an empty despair.
“You had a nightmare,” he said, his voice as scratchy as sandpaper. “Are you awake?”
She blinked. Nodded.
As though suddenly realizing the impropriety of their closeness, of her bare arms touching the thin cloth of his night robe, the heat of his body seeping into hers, she pulled away and drew the blankets to her chin.
“I was so worried.” Louise rushed forward, throwing her body on the bed with little regard for personal space. Dominic was forced to shift position or be knocked over. “You were screaming.”
From behind Louise’s mussed hair, she offered a wobbling smile. “A bad dream. We all have them sometimes.”
“Do you want to talk about the dream? Perhaps find the meaning behind it?” he asked.
“Meaning behind a dream?” Henrietta’s eyebrows pulled together, and that familiar condescension she often donned sent a profound relief through him. If she could give a look like that, then surely she would overcome whatever had so disturbed her sleep.
His niece popped up from where she’d been lying against Henrietta’s legs. “Let’s have warm milk and tarts.”
“In the middle of the night?” Now she was fully aware, pulling herself into a sitting position, and with the worry abating, Dominic became conscious of how exceptionally lovely she looked with her gold-streaked hair floating in disarray about her face. “I hardly think that would be good for your digestion.”
“But it is eminently good for our constitutions,” Dominic remarked, winking at Louise.
His niece hopped off the bed, an expression of glee upon her face that was no longer little girl, but not quite woman. “I can tell you where Cook keeps her secret stash.”
And so it was that ten minutes later, Miss Henrietta Gordon joined them in the kitchen. She’d thrown on a dress, though Dominic was not sure how as he’d heard they were quite cumbersome to put on by oneself. No doubt the practical woman had found a way without a maid. As she came in, he found himself exhaling with relief because color had seeped into her lips and cheeks. There was no longer that empty, fearful cast to her gaze that had caused his stomach to quake.
She surveyed the array of sweets Louise spread out on the servants’ table. Her mouth made a small circle of wonder. “You were not jesting.”
“Of course not.” Louise lifted her chin, giving Dominic such a proud, knowing look that he at once felt a swelling surge of pride followed quickly by a wave of shame. While he’d been licking his wounds at his cottage, Louise had been mourning the death of her parents alone.
Certainly he’d visited every so often, but those small moments could not ease the immense loss she suffered. How incredibly selfish he’d been. All the more reason to ensure Louise’s happiness and health before ceasing to give in to Old John’s blackmail.
Henrietta sidled into a chair between Dominic and Louise. She had put her hair up, but not well. Tendrils curled against her cheeks, making her look softer and vulnerable. There was a great choking feeling in Dominic now. A sense of being propelled toward a future he wasn’t sure he wanted or needed.
“How is it that you know Cook’s secret hiding places? And that she has not caught on?” Henrietta snagged a tart.
Louise smirked. “My father taught me how to pilfer.”
“He always had a sweet tooth,” Dominic said ruefully.
“What was he like as a child?” Louise popped a whole tart in her mouth.
Trying not to laugh at the unladylike unawareness she displayed, he took his own biscuit and nibbled a corner before answering. “Your father was responsible and kind. He helped all those who asked, but he had a weakness, Louise. A fatal flaw, if you will.”
Her eyes widened, and Henrietta was surreptitiously shaking her head at him, trying to warn him not to say anything to hurt his niece’s feelings.
Smothering a grin, he picked off a piece of cookie and twirled it between his fingertips. “Not only did Edmund sneak treats in the middle of the night, but I’d follow him. And inevitably your father would get frustrated with me. I was the little brother. The annoying twit who wouldn’t leave him alone with his biscuits. And sometimes, he lost his temper with me.”
Both ladies watched him warily, listening.
He broke off a piece of biscuit, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. A puckish urge swept through him. As though in honor of his brother, the boy who had led forays into the woods with sticks, scampered up trees, the man who had faith enough in Dominic to leave him in charge of his daughter, he flicked the tiny biscuit ball at Louise.
Henrietta gasped as the crumb flew past her startled gaze and flopped against Louise’s forehead before falling to the ground.
* * *
Half an hour later, Henrietta picked the last piece of evidence of their sweets war from the kitchen floor. Louise was sprawled on a long bench against the wall, fast asleep. Dominic worked at the other end of the room, awkwardly sweeping a corner that received the brunt of the ammunition.
“You made a mess, Miss Gordon.” He straightened from over the broom, his dimple deep, as though he’d heard her thoughts.
“Only because my target kept moving.”
“You blame the target and not your aim?” He set the broom against the wall and walked over.
“My aim is superb,” she retorted, but she was laughing, too. “Did your brother really throw cookies at you?”
“Every time.”
They sat at the table, facing outward, their backs resting against the surface. Louise slept on, her hands tucked beneath her head and her face as still and perfect as a trusting babe’s.
“And did you two pick up after yourselves?”
His face pleated into a laughing scoff. “Cook did.”
“The same cook?”
“Yes, she’s been here as long as I can remember. Used to swat my hands with her spatulas. Edmund and I made a game of snatching and running. One of us distracted Cook while the other grabbed the sugary loot.”
“What a perfectly lovely story.” Henrietta looked down at her own hands. They were capable and steady.
“Did you never sneak into your kitchens at night?”
Though the question was innocent enough, it brought her back to the reason they were up in the middle of the night in the first place. A shudder rippled through her.
“That looks like a no.” Dominic’s low voice filtered through her struggle to not remember. “Are you thinking of your dreams? Do you want to talk about them?”
“I don’t wish to speak of them.” Because they’d hurt. Because she could still feel the flames’ heat licking her face, the raw-throated cries of soldiers as surgeons sawed off their legs.
“Do tell. I am not sleepy yet. Too many biscuits in my stomach.” He winked at her “Louise was scared. If you talk about what bothered you, then perhaps you won’t have the same dreams anymore. Perhaps I can offer advice.”
&
nbsp; “I do not wish to scare her further. I suppose you make a good point.”
“Don’t sound so reluctant to admit my finer qualities, Miss Gordon. Or should I say, Retta?”
She shot him a slit-eyed gaze, even though his use of the moniker threaded a surprising thrill through her emotions. “Very well. It’s a recurrent dream. Though it was more severe tonight, more intense.” She glanced at Louise’s prone form, wondering what exactly had happened to upset the plucky girl.
“She said you were screaming in your sleep,” said Dominic.
“The dream starts with the soldiers. One in particular. Adam. His leg had gangrene and it was spreading. He was the one who told me God loved me. That I could talk to God. He gave me his Bible.” She swallowed hard. “We had to amputate the limb, but infection set in and he died. Sometimes I dream of him. I dream that he blames me. He is crying for his wife and two children, and he asks why I didn’t stop the infection. Because I know how. Clean the wound. Use herbs and poultices to draw out impurities. But if the infection gets into the blood—” She choked, stopping.
“There was nothing you could do.”
“For any of them. All those men...whole families. The wives followed their husbands. Made camp on the outskirts of the battlefield. There was a fire set in Newark. It was wartime, and there is nothing good that I remember from that time, but sometimes my mind forgets that it is over.” She drew in a ragged sigh, staring at her clasped hands, digging her nails into her skin. “And then the dream inevitably turns to the night my parents died.”
She looked up in time to see his eyes flicker, as though surprised. She smiled a rueful smile. “It is silly, is it not, to dream of something almost ten years past? Yet I do. My mind will not let me forget. My father loved my mother, too. They had what is called a love match. She wanted the same for me, but love is truly a matter of our humors. Our brains at work, creating emotions. Perhaps chemicals within that cause us to feel certain responses.”
The Unconventional Governess Page 10