An Unlikely Governess

by Karen Ranney

  “Your father sounds like a very wise man.”

  “My father was the best man in the whole wide world. Nothing my uncle could ever say would ever change my mind.”

  She glanced down at him, wondering if Cameron Gordon was guilty of maligning the dead.

  He didn’t say anything further about Cameron, and Beatrice felt strangely relieved. She had held her position for only two days. Yet those two days had been very peculiar ones.

  Robert walked to the end of the hall and pushed open the door. Instantly, he was bathed in sunlight. Curious, she followed him and peered into the room.

  The windows started midway along the outside wall and stretched up to the ceiling and angled upward. Sunlight flooded into the room, warming the space and tinting it golden. Beatrice felt as if she were inside a bright yellow jewel.

  “Isn’t it nice, Miss Sinclair?”

  “I think it’s absolutely perfect,” she said, awed.

  To the right was the line of mountains, to the left the ocean sparkling in the early-afternoon sun. Ahead were the hills and valleys of the land belonging to Castle Crannoch.

  “If nothing else,” she said, smiling, “the vista will be an inspiration for your learning, Your Grace. You’ll want to become the most learned duke of all, especially viewing your birthright each and every day.”

  “Do you know you only say ‘Your Grace’ when you’re pleased with me?”

  “Do I?” She glanced him and smiled. “Then you should try to make me say it often.”

  She studied the room. Someone had made this beautiful room a storehouse for empty crates and trunks.

  “It will take some time to clear out all this mess. We’ll have to remove the trunks and put them somewhere else.”

  Robert began to drag one out the door. “No, we can’t go about this all willy-nilly. We have to have a little organization.”

  She began to count the trunks. “What we really need is help. It’s called division of labor.”

  “Call one of the footmen.”

  She glanced at him.

  “I’m the Duke of Brechin, Miss Sinclair. I can still command my own servants.”

  Just when she thought he was uncomplicated and childlike, Robert surprised her.

  “Very well, is there a bellpull up here? Or do we need to go down to the second floor?”

  He grinned at her, evidently pleased about something. He walked to the end of the corridor and waved his hands at her to get her attention.

  She folded her arms over her chest and tapped her foot impatiently.

  “Yes?”

  Mounted on the wall above his head was a metal triangle. He jumped up to grab it, succeeding on the first try. Wrapping his arms around it, he allowed his weight to carry him nearly to the floor. When he released the triangle, the tension made it bounce back almost to the ceiling.

  “What is that?” Beatrice said, coming to investigate the curious instrument.

  “It’s a fire alarm,” Roberts said. “It only rings in the kitchen. In moments we’ll have all sorts of servants here.”

  “Robert Gordon! Have you no sense? You will scare everyone to death.”

  She frowned at him, but he blithely ignored her.

  Within five minutes at least four of the seven servants employed at Castle Crannoch appeared at the entrance to the servants’ stair, red-faced and carrying buckets. Just as she’d feared, every single one of them looked terrified.

  Beatrice dismissed them all except one footman, who looked less breathless than the others. He and Robert exchanged a glance and a conspiratorial smile, and she wanted to ask him if he’d been Robert’s partner in illicit activities before.

  Perhaps ignorance was the better course, at least for the moment.

  The two of them set about moving the crates from the room while she investigated the trunks. Most of them were empty except for a few wedged into the corner. Two of them were badly damaged, the tops nearly crushed.

  She didn’t know where to put them. When she’d tried to move them, both felt as if they were full.

  “They belonged to my parents,” Robert said from beside her. “I wondered where they’d gone.” He pointed to another trunk against the wall. “That’s my mother’s.”

  “Where should they go?”

  “Could they stay here?”

  Thankfully he didn’t ask they be opened, only that they remain in the room, almost as if both parents would be present during their lessons. She understood, since she had done similar foolish things, such as lighting her father’s pipe so the scent of his tobacco would permeate the empty cottage and putting her mother’s apron on the cabinet so it looked as if she’d just stepped away.

  “Of course they can,” she said, smiling.

  Robert made an attempt at a smile in return.

  Their efforts were rewarded, two hours later, by an almost empty room. They could move a table into the center, leaving space for some bookshelves against the wall. Another discovery they’d made was the fireplace against one wall. A blaze in the hearth would warm the room on even the coldest of days.

  The three of them worked together in perfect harmony, the physical labor helping to push aside the frightening events of the morning. When the room was empty, she went in search of something to clean the floor, leaving Robert behind with the footman as company. When she returned from the scullery armed with a bucket and a mop, she found the footman had disappeared, but Robert was still there. This time, however, his companion was a woman.

  “You must be the amazing Miss Sinclair.”

  Staring at her was one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. A tall crown of bright red hair was piled on the top of her head and framed a face as smooth and flawless as porcelain. Her green eyes, however, were hard as chips of stone.

  “Robert,” she said, glancing down at the boy. “Go and ready yourself for dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Beatrice sighed. Evidently, the child’s arrogance had not dissipated completely.

  “Your Grace,” she said, “remember your manners.”

  He glared at her, but Beatrice frowned right back at him.

  “Very well,” he said. He made a perfect little bow from the waist. “Miss Sinclair.”

  She nodded, pleased with him. He turned and bowed to the redheaded woman. “Aunt Rowena.”

  “Forgive me,” Beatrice said. “I didn’t know you’d returned. I’m Robert’s governess.”

  “So I understand. Did you know my husband prior to being employed by him, Miss Sinclair?” the other woman asked in an icy tone.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Extraordinary, especially since my husband likes to surround himself with attractive women.”

  Beatrice had never been faced with another woman’s instant dislike. Nor had she ever been so certain that another person’s antipathy was based on false information and misplaced jealousy.

  “You won’t like Castle Crannoch, Miss Sinclair. There is nothing here to keep you occupied. Nothing to interest a young woman such as you.”

  At the risk of sounding insolent, Beatrice remained silent.

  Rowena Gordon swept by her and left the room, giving Beatrice the distinct impression life at Castle Crannoch had just gotten more difficult. Coming as it was after this morning’s unsettling events, the knowledge wasn’t comforting in the least.

  Chapter 16

  Beatrice finished dressing, tilted the mirror above the bureau and surveyed herself one last time. This was to be her first family dinner, now that Rowena had returned to the castle. Frankly, she would have preferred another tray in her room.

  She closed the door quietly behind her and walked down the hall to the Duke’s Chamber. As Robert’s governess, it was incumbent upon her to ensure that his manners were perfect for this evening. Perhaps a little conversation before they descended to the dining room wouldn’t be amiss.

  Her knock wasn’t answered. Slowly, she turned the handle and pushed the door
ajar. The room was empty. Hopefully, Robert had gone down to dinner early and was not hiding somewhere. She really didn’t have the energy to find him.

  Halfway down the staircase, she gestured to a maid just as the girl was sliding behind a hidden panel.

  “Where is the dining room?”

  “On the first floor, the third room in the east wing.”

  She bobbed a curtsy and disappeared from sight, much as Beatrice would like to do. The directions were sparse, but she finally found the room.

  Unlike the area where they’d eaten breakfast, the formal dining room at Castle Crannoch was a monument to the family’s history. There were claymores, shields, tartans, and banners hanging from the ceiling and the wall, interspersed with hunting pictures and portraits of dogs and horses. It was the most fantastic juxtaposition of really bad art she’d ever seen in her entire life.

  To her relief, Robert was already seated at the table. Not at the head of it, but to his uncle’s left. Rowena was on Cameron’s right. Another place was set far down on the left side of the table, far enough to be considered an insult. She took her place without comment, nodding to the family. The only response she received was Robert’s smile.

  Dinner was a strange affair. Robert was in rare form, finding the silliest things about which to giggle. Otherwise, however, the young duke minded his manners without being prompted to do so.

  Rowena Gordon ignored her for the entire meal. Whenever Cameron addressed a remark in her direction, Rowena affected to study the sconce on the far wall, no doubt measuring the length and width of the candle since the last time she had done so.

  Was Rowena Gordon jealous of every female at Castle Crannoch? Was it simply because Beatrice was new or that she’d been hired without Rowena’s consent?

  “Were you in London long, Mrs. Gordon?” she asked.

  Once again, Rowena studied the sconce. Was she going to answer her? Or simply ignore her again? Equal parts of embarrassment and irritation made Beatrice wish she hadn’t asked.

  “Not long, no. But long enough, perhaps.”

  “Two months, Miss Sinclair,” Cameron said.

  “Did you find London to your liking?”

  “I enjoyed it as well as I was able, being separated from my husband.”

  “They say that sooner or later the entire world goes to London.”

  “Do they?” Rowena smiled absently, in that exasperating way beautiful women do, as if they could not be bothered to curve their lips. Perhaps the effort was too exhausting, and they needed to save their energy for flirtatious glances and fanning themselves.

  She should not be so intent upon initiating a conversation with the other woman. Yet, politeness dictated she at least attempt to do so. Rowena, however, was making it exceedingly difficult to be polite.

  Finally, the woman looked directly at her, the first time she’d done so during the whole of dinner.

  “What are your qualifications to be the Duke of Brechin’s governess, Miss Sinclair? Have you impeccable references?”

  She had no references.

  Beatrice glanced at Cameron Gordon, who was watching her with an inscrutable expression on his face, almost like a cat watching a mouse. There was going to be no assistance from him. Why? Because she’d dared to challenge him this morning?

  Once again, she had the thought she’d be better off simply marching down the mountain. She’d find some type of employment. Better yet, perhaps she’d even return to Edinburgh with Devlen when he next visited. Surely in Edinburgh she could find a position with a normal family.

  As it was, however, she needed to answer the woman.

  “While it is true my stitchery is not very competent,” she said calmly, “I can read three languages. I speak French as well as Italian and German, and can converse on a variety of subjects secular or religious. I’ve helped tutor young men in Latin, and I’ve had sufficient training in mathematics, geography, and economics.”

  “It seems you’re talented in a variety of tasks, Miss Sinclair. However, you need not narrow your employment to that of a governess. You could be suitable for a diversity of employment, such as a milliner’s assistant or a barmaid, for example.”

  “I’ve no interest in hats, and while I don’t object to spirits because of any moral stance, I simply cannot abide the smell of ale. Oddly enough, the owner of the tavern at which I applied thought I was too old and ugly to be employed by him.” She looked directly at Rowena. “I’m gratified you don’t feel the same.”

  She didn’t mention she’d no longer had a choice as to what she would do. She had to become employed or sell her body for a meal. “Virtue” was a word having meaning only for the well fed, the warm, and the secure.

  Had she simply exchanged one set of problems for another? Perhaps, but the present set of problems came equipped with a well-stocked larder and a salary that had been mentioned in passing but still had the power to make her jaw drop in shock.

  She forced a smile to her face, and returned to her dinner, wishing Rowena Gordon had remained in London.

  Dinner was excellent, roast beef and duckling, each in a creamy sauce, vegetables, and a wonderful sweet torte that was so light it almost floated off the plate. But Beatrice couldn’t help but wonder if being fed, however fulsomely, was enough to offset living a furtive life among people who suspected each other of unspeakable acts and hidden desires.

  For the first time, she could understand why Robert didn’t want Cameron to know about the incident in the woods. The two of them, boy and governess, exchanged a glance. She smiled, a look of collusion, and vowed to keep his secret.

  “I didn’t expect to see you home so soon, sir.” Saunders stepped back, placed his fingers deftly around the collar of Devlen’s snug jacket and helped him skin it off.

  “To tell you the truth,” Devlen told the other man, “I didn’t expect to return home this early.”

  He walked into his library, satisfied when he noticed his staff had lit all the candles in the sconces and the oil lamps on the mantel and the desk.

  “Was the gathering not to your taste, sir? I understand some members of the royal family were to be in attendance.”

  “They were, Saunders. Edinburgh society was graced tonight with a few inbred cousins and more than enough titles to throw around. They would have, I believe, gladly dispensed with the titles in exchange for another fortune or two. Why is it, Saunders, that the higher up in society one goes, the more one affects not to need money and yet the more one must have it?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

  “You may go,” he said, dismissing the other man with a flick of his hand. Saunders disappeared from a room with a relieved sigh.

  Devlen was used to being alone, but this last week, he’d begun to crave company. He disliked mysteries, especially those of his own nature. Why was he so restless?

  The knock on the door was unexpected, and he turned, waiting.

  Saunders peered inside the room, his usual affable appearance marred by a disconcerted expression.

  “Sir, you have a visitor.”

  “At this hour?” He glanced at the mantel clock. Nine o’clock. Not late enough to retire, but certainly too late for a business appointment.

  “A Mr. Martin, sir. He says it’s vital he speak with you.”

  Martin was the owner of a company he was thinking of buying. The man had developed a type of percussion powder that interested him. His company, however, was lamentably run, without organization, and in financial chaos. Martin was facing ruin, unless Devlen purchased the sagging company as well as the man’s new invention.

  Devlen sat behind his desk and nodded to Saunders.

  When Martin was ushered into his library, he gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

  Martin sat, hat held tightly between his hands.

  “Have you thought about my proposal?” Devlen asked.

  “I have. I don’t want to sell. But I’ve no choice, have I?”

  “You a
lways have a choice. I don’t want it said I browbeat you into a decision.”

  He stood, offered the man a glass of whiskey. Martin took it, drank it too quickly, and set the tumbler down on the edge of the desk. Devlen took his own glass and returned to his chair.

  “I want to be partners instead of giving you everything. I’ll sell you half.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “What good is half a company to me?”

  Martin didn’t answer.

  Devlen leaned back in the chair, waiting.

  Because I have the knowledge and you don’t. Because I’ll make you money. Because I’ll keep my new invention unless you agree to my terms. All comments Devlen expected to hear from the man sitting opposite him.

  Martin, however, simply stared down at his hat and remained mute.

  Devlen had no patience with people who couldn’t define exactly what they wanted and how they wanted it. A man should always be able to articulate his wishes and goals.

  “Well?”

  Still, the man didn’t look at him.

  “Why would it be to my advantage to buy half your company? I’m not used to being a partner. I prefer to own things outright.”

  Martin looked up. Devlen was horrified to note tears in the other man’s eyes.

  “It’s all I have.”

  Devlen stood and walked to the window.

  A more compassionate man might have given in at that point. But he’d never been judged as exceptionally compassionate. Shrewd, yes. Sensible, certainly. Dogmatic, intense, ambitious, all labels he accepted because society insisted upon tagging its members.

  “Are you married, Mr. Martin?” He didn’t turn to look at the other man.

  “Yes, I am. Twenty years now.”

  “Do you love your wife?”

  “Sir?”

  Devlen turned to face the other man. “A curious question, but humor me. Do you love your wife?”

  Martin nodded.

  “How did you decide you loved her?”

  The other man looked confused, and Devlen couldn’t blame him.

  “Well, it was an arranged marriage, sir. Her father knew my father.”