What had transpired between the two brothers after Jeffrey Mowrey left my sitting room last night? They had talked, yes, I knew that, but what decision had been reached? Was I to be dismissed? Was the coach even now on its way to Mowrey House? Jeffrey Mowrey had been quite firm, telling me not to pack, not to worry, and there had been a determined set to his mouth, but his brother was utterly inflexible and I couldn’t imagine anyone making him change his mind once he had reached a decision.
As I passed the hall table I noticed that the flowers were indeed messed up, jumbled together untidily in the vase. Mrs. Rawson really had been eavesdropping, then, just as Douglas said. I fervently wished there were time to find her and speak to her, for I felt sure she was privy to everything that had been said. I paused in front of the office door and took a deep breath, silently praying for strength. I mustn’t let him sense my apprehension. I must be calm and reserved, cool and self-possessed.
I knocked timidly on the door, my heart pounding.
“Come in.” The voice was crisp, clipped.
He was sitting behind the enormous desk, examining a ledger opened before him. He didn’t look up. He continued to examine a set of figures, apparently unaware of my presence, even though he had ordered me to come in. It was a ploy to make me even more uneasy, to throw me off balance, I saw that, and curiously enough it had just the opposite effect. So transparent a ploy didn’t make him more formidable. It made him more the petty tyrant he actually was. He had wealth and power, yes, and many trembled before him, but I vowed I wouldn’t be one of them. I had done nothing wrong. I wasn’t going to be bullied.
I had never been in the office before, and I examined it calmly while he continued to study the ledger. It was a large room, a rather crudely executed painting of the Mowrey pottery works hanging over the fireplace. Smokestacks reared black and ugly against a blue gray sky, furnace glowing with red orange furor, the clay pits visible in the distance. A shelf on the other side of the room displayed examples of the pottery, blue cups and saucers, blue plates—cheap, easily affordable pottery found in thousands of homes throughout England—along with a set of the more expensive line also produced at the factory, milky white china adorned with pale orange flowers outlined in gold. Adjoining the office was a much smaller office where Parks worked laboriously over accounts and correspondence. He was not there this morning. I assumed Lord Robert didn’t want his secretary to overhear what was to be said.
Finally closing the ledger, he pushed it aside and raised his head to look at me. His pale, lean face was expressionless, his brown-black eyes stony. I might have been a stranger to him.
“You wished to see me?” I said.
He didn’t reply at once. He continued to stare at me with those dark, stony eyes, and then his thin lips curled with distaste. He lowered his gaze and began to shuffle a stack of papers, ignoring me again. I waited, truly calm now, confident as well. Right was on my side, and I was still young enough to believe that right, would triumph in the end.
“My brother was quite distressed when he learned you were to be dismissed,” he said. He might have been speaking to himself. “He has insisted you stay on as my nephew’s governess.”
He didn’t look up. He continued to shuffle the papers.
“Has he?” I said.
“I objected, of course. I find it difficult to deny my brother anything, I have a weakness where he is concerned, but I objected most strongly. I informed him that in my opinion you were an unsuitable influence.”
“Unsuitable?”
“Too young, too lenient, too lax.”
“That isn’t true.”
“You dress like a whore. You paint your face like a whore.”
“That isn’t true either, Lord Robert.”
He ignored my words, concentrating on the papers, straightening them into a neat pile. His lean face was taut, his lips tight. He was finding it difficult to control himself, I saw. I could sense the anger and hostility seething beneath that cold, austere facade.
“You made an extremely favorable impression on my brother, it seems. He informed me that his son’s education is his affair and that you are to be retained. He was quite adamant about it.”
“Indeed?”
“He went so far as to say that if you left, he and Douglas would leave, too. He meant every word he said. Under the circumstances I had no recourse but to concede to his wishes. My brother defied me. Deliberately. We’ve had disagreements before, but he’s never openly defied me.”
“I’m sorry that you’re displeased.”
“You’re a very clever young woman, Miss James.”
“Clever?”
He shoved the stack of papers aside and looked up, and his eyes burned with emotion now, burned with an unalloyed hatred that was chilling in its intensity. Why? Why did this man hate me so? What had I done to deserve it? He stood up, looming there behind the desk so very tall, thin to the point of emaciation, his black suit severe. The burning black-brown eyes intensified the pallor of those lean, pitted cheeks, and I was reminded of some half-demented religious zealot prepared to bring the wrath of God down on his cringing flock.
“I feared something like this would happen,” he said. “That’s the reason I wanted you out of the house before he returned.”
“‘Something like this—’” I repeated his words, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do, Miss James.”
“I can assure you, I—”
“I know what you’re up to,” he told me.
I began to see then. As those hate-filled eyes glared at me I began to understand, and I was stunned. I remembered what Mrs. Rawson had told me about him the day I arrived at Mowrey House, and I remembered the curious feeling I had had that I presented some kind of threat to him. Everything fell into place. I knew why he loathed me, why my very presence was a threat.
“It’s my own fault, of course,” he continued, and his voice was surprisingly dry, as though he were discussing the weather. “I should never have hired you in the first place. I should have sent you back to Bath immediately.”
“Perhaps that would have been best,” I agreed. “I’ve no intention of leaving now.”
“No?”
“As long as your brother wants me here, nothing can drive me away.”
“You’re very brave, aren’t you?”
“No, Lord Robert, not brave, just not easily intimidated. I assume you hoped I would decide to leave on my own volition.”
“You assumed correctly. If you were wise, Miss James, you would do just that. You would make some kind of excuse to my brother—a sick relative, whatever—and leave within the week.”
“I shan’t,” I said.
He stared at me, thwarted, furious, containing that fury with superb control. I had just made a very dangerous enemy. I understood that, and I was shaken, but I stood my ground with chin held high. Lord Robert picked up the papers he had been shuffling earlier, his face expressionless again, his eyes stony, and when he spoke his voice was utterly flat.
“My brother has informed me that I am not to interfere,” he told me. “I shall respect his wishes. His son’s education is his affair, as he was so ready to point out. A rather belated conclusion, I might add. He hasn’t been too concerned about it until now.”
He looked down at the papers, reading the one on top. I waited, certain there was more to come. I was right. After a moment he set the papers back on the desk and gazed at me with frosty eyes.
“One thing more,” he said.
“Yes?”
“My nephew’s education is my brother’s affair, true, but Jeffrey’s welfare is mine. He’s extremely vulnerable, but I’ve no intention of letting him be entrapped by a predatory female. I’ll be watching you, Miss James, and I strongly suggest you concern yourself solely with your duties in the nursery.”
I nodded politely. “Will that be all, Lord Robert?”
“That will be all, Miss James.”
I
left the office, closing the door behind me and moving resolutely down the hall toward the staircase. I was very pleased with the way I had handled myself. I hadn’t allowed him to intimidate me, and I told myself that his scarcely veiled threat didn’t frighten me at all. I was going to stay at Mowrey House. That was the important thing. I put Lord Robert out of my mind and thought instead of his brother. Jeffrey Mowrey had said he would see me in the nursery this morning. I moved up the staircase, thinking of him, filled with a joyous anticipation so intense it was almost like an ache inside, an ache only he could soothe.
5
Douglas was restless and impatient, refusing to concentrate, refusing to pay attention as we did our math. If two times four was eight, he couldn’t have cared less. Sitting at the table with chin in hand, a blond wave dipping over his brow and a surly expression on his face, he fretted, eager to see his father. Jeffrey had promised him that he could see the new horse again today and maybe even ride it, and he could think of nothing else. I gave him my sternest look and informed him in a chilly voice that if he didn’t do his lessons I’d tell his father.
“And then there’d be no visit to the stables, I assure you,” I added.
“Awright!” he snapped. “Two times two is three—uh—four, and two times four is eight and two times eight is thirteen. There!”
“Two times eight is what?”
“Thirteen!”
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
“Fourteen?”
I waited. He frowned and did some mental figuring and then began to count on his fingers. I glanced out the window, on edge myself, every bit as impatient as Douglas. It was a glorious, sun-spangled day, brilliant rays spilling lavishly through the windows and making pools on the polished hardwood floor. I could see the sea in the distance, beyond the treetops, and the cry of gulls was a constant, muted background. It was much too beautiful a day to be cooped up here in the nursery like this, but duty was duty.
“Sixteen,” he said at last.
“Correct. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“It was hard as hell.”
“Douglas!”
“I’m too little to be learnin’ all that hard stuff,” he protested. “Why can’t we do Calleyban and Miranda?”
“We will, just as soon as we finish our math.”
“You look funny with your hair all pulled back like that,” he informed me. “I like it better like it was, fallin’ to your shoulders. Why don’t you pull it back down?”
“You’re terribly impertinent this morning, Douglas.”
“I wanna see Daddy.”
“Your father is probably sleeping late. He had a very long journey, and he was up very late last night.”
“I know, talkin’ with Uncle Robert.”
“We’d better continue, Douglas.”
“I’m glad Daddy’s home. Do you think he loves me, Honora?”
I was taken aback. “Of—of course he does.”
“I just wondered.” His gray eyes were thoughtful. “Seems to me if he loved me he wouldn’t stay gone all the time. Seems he’d wanna be with me.”
He sighed, pensive now, and I wanted to hug him to me and stroke that thick blond hair and assure him that he was indeed loved. Instead, I assumed a severe expression.
“What’s two times nine?” I asked.
“Eighteen,” he replied promptly.
“Two times ten?”
“Twenty. There. Two times one is two. Two times two is four. Two times three is seven. Two times four is eight. I know it all and it’s borin’ as hell, so let’s do the play.”
“Two times three is not seven.”
“It is, too!”
“It most assuredly is not.”
He began to count on his fingers, scowling, and when he got to six the scowl turned into a frown and he paused, a puzzled look in his eyes. Then he grinned.
“Six,” he said. “I knew it all along.”
I gave him an exasperated look, enchanted by his pixie charm but much too sensible to let him know it. Putting aside the math book and papers, I pulled the painted cardboard theater nearer the edge of the table, and Douglas took out the cutout characters we had made to illustrate The Tempest.
“I’ll be Calleyban and Prospero,” he said, “and you be Miranda and Ariel and all them noblemen.”
“Those noblemen.”
“Those boring chaps. Where’s Stephano? I wanna be Stephano, too. Now you tell the story and we’ll act it out with the paper dolls.”
“There was a terrible storm at sea—” I began.
“I wish we had a bucket of water. It’d be more fun, but I guess we’d ruin the dolls if we got ’em wet. There was this terrible storm at sea and the ship with the noblemen and Stephano was wrecked and there was this island—”
“And on the island Miranda lived with her father and—”
“—this ugly monster!” he interrupted, moving the cutout of Caliban across the stage.
He continued to interrupt, finally taking over completely and relating the story himself with great enthusiasm. Bored with Ferdinand, Antonio, and company, he eliminated them completely, doing his own version with considerable imagination and taking much glee in paraphrasing the lines of Caliban and Stephano, the inebriated butler.
“An’ I’m gonna have another drink, monster! An’ then we’re gonna have a big fight!” He lowered his voice to a growl then. “An’ I’m gonna eat you up, smarty-pants!”
It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it was great fun for him, and I told myself it was educational. We were so immersed that neither of us heard Jeffrey Mowrey enter the nursery.
“An’ they lived happily ever after!” Douglas cried. “The monster, too. That was fun, Honora. Let’s do it again!”
Jeffrey Mowrey chuckled. I turned, startled, totally flustered as his blue eyes met mine. Douglas jumped up and raced over to fling himself against his father’s legs. Jeffrey Mowrey scooped him up into his arms and slung him over his shoulder as Douglas squealed with delight. I stood up, feeling guilty for some reason, feeling terribly disoriented. Jeffrey Mowrey tossed his son into the air, caught him nimbly, set him on his feet.
“Do it again, Daddy! Do it again!”
“I fear we’re outraging Miss James. She looks very severe.”
“It’s her hair makes her look that way, makes her look prissy. I told her she oughta pull it down.”
Jeffrey Mowrey chuckled again and gave his son a friendly cuff on the arm. Douglas beamed, wrapping his arms around his father’s right leg and resting his head against it. Jeffrey Mowrey placed one large hand on his son’s head and began to tousle his hair. Douglas tilted his head back, looking up at him.
“Can I see the horse again, Daddy? Can I ride him?”
“We’ll see. You run on down to the stables and find Bradley. I’ll join you in a few minutes. I want to talk to Miss James.”
“Don’t dawdle! Bye, Honora!”
He scampered out of the room. We could hear him running noisily down the hall. I shook my head. Jeffrey Mowrey smiled. His dark brown knee boots were highly polished, his tan breeches snug, fitting calf and thigh like a second skin. His fine silk shirt was a creamy beige, open at the throat, the sleeves very full, gathered at the wrist. Sunlight burnished his dark blond hair, and a heavy wave dipped over his brow. He seemed to bring his own radiance into the room.
His blue eyes gazed at me politely, fondly, and the smile played lightly on his beautifully shaped pink mouth. He was like a storybook figure, a handsome prince whose kiss awakens the sleeping beauty, too handsome, too dazzling to be flesh and blood. He seemed completely unaware of his good looks, and although he had been rowdy with his son, he seemed almost shy now that the two of us were alone.
“He—Douglas is very glad you’re home,” I said.
There was a slight tremor in my voice. I fought to compose myself, fought to banish those curious, bewildering sensations that stirred inside like tight, tiny buds exploding softly into bloo
m. I was his son’s governess. He was my employer. I must remember that. I assumed a stiff, proper manner, and when I spoke again my voice was suitably grave.
“Ordinarily he’s much better behaved. He knows he’s not supposed to run in the house. I’ll speak to him.”
“You needn’t apologize for him, Miss James.”
Embarrassed, confused, I turned away from him and began to tidy up our worktable. Jeffrey Mowrey moved over beside me and reached down to pick up the paper doll of Miranda.
“You did this?” he inquired.
“I made them all. I thought—I thought it would be nice for Douglas to learn something about Shakespeare. I thought it would be fun if we made a replica of the Globe Theater and—”
“You’re extremely nervous, Miss James.”
“I—I can’t help it,” I said feebly.
“You mustn’t let me intimidate you. We’re going to be good friends.”
I made no reply. Jeffrey Mowrey studied the paper doll in his hand.
“She looks remarkably like you,” he observed, tilting his head slightly, eyeing the doll. “Her hair is the same rich auburn, her eyes the same lovely shade of gray. You’re quite an accomplished artist, Miss James.”
“Thank you.”
He put the paper doll down and looked into my eyes. “I spoke to my brother,” he told me. “Everything is settled. You’re to stay on at Mowrey House until such a time as I see fit to dismiss you.”
“I—I see.”
He smiled again, his blue eyes gently teasing. “I fancy I’ll be spending a lot of time in the nursery, observing your work. Have to be sure my son’s getting the proper instruction.”
“Of course.”
I gave him a curt nod, stiff, formal, distant. His lower lip was full and sensual, I noticed, and the skin across those broad cheekbones was taut. I remembered what Mrs. Rawson had told me about him. He might not “tomcat around,” as she put it, and his manner with the ladies might be polite and diffident, but Jeffrey Mowrey was a man who savored things of the flesh. I sensed that, inexperienced though I was in such matters.
Once More, Miranda Page 5