by Lenora Bell
“Please don’t! That is, she and I don’t always agree on . . . things. She prefers the Miss Dunkirk sort, if you understand my meaning?”
Mrs. Fairfield gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I understand completely.”
“Will you tell me more of the children’s upbringing?” Mari asked, to channel the conversation away from treacherous waters.
“I’m afraid I’m unaware of the particulars. All I know is that their mother gave not a fig for those children and they were raised by a nurse in a small seaside village in the Riviera of France. Can you imagine?” Mrs. Fairfield set her teacup down with an indignant clink. “A mother abandoning her own children? Though one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I know.”
Mari had spent her whole life imagining a mother who might abandon her child, as Mari had been left at the orphanage. In her dreams her mother was still alive, and she hadn’t chosen to give her child away. There had been some mistake. Perhaps Mari had been stolen away.
In her dreams her mother had been searching for her all of these years.
“At least their mother engaged an English tutor,” said Mrs. Fairfield. “Otherwise they might only speak French.”
“Might I ask you a rather delicate question, Mrs. Fairfield?”
“Of course, dearie.”
“Are the twins . . . are they the duke’s legitimate issue?”
“The duke never married.” Her eyes clouded over. “I do hope you won’t think ill of us and leave?”
No chance of that, given her own uncertain origins. “The children had no control over the circumstances of their birth. I shan’t hold it against them. And I must say it was good of His Grace to acknowledge them.”
“He was fair livid when they arrived. Said if he’d known of them earlier he could have provided them with a proper British upbringing with no expense spared for their comfort.”
No expense spared. Yes, that seemed to be his philosophy. Outfit the twins in expensive clothes and fill their nursery with expensive toys.
But affection and loyalty couldn’t simply be purchased.
They must be earned.
“Someday the duke will marry and the twins will have half siblings,” said Mrs. Fairfield. “Though at the moment he spends far more time at his foundry with his iron horses than with marriageable ladies.”
He may shun suitable ladies, but he made no secret of his paramours, for surely that’s what Lady India had been. They’d used such a familiar address. And she’d called him darling and kissed him good-bye in front of the children.
Mrs. Fairfield stirred her tea, a pensive expression stealing across her face. “I want a babe in the nursery before I’m too old to dandle the precious thing. And I’m not the only one. The dowager duchess is near to despairing, she wants an heir so badly.”
“Does the dowager live here?” Mari certainly hoped not. From everything she’d read of dowager duchesses in novels, they were most definitely to be avoided.
“She and the duke are estranged because of a sordid incident some years past. He walks with a limp now, I’m sure you noticed. But that’s a sad tale, and best saved for another time.”
She hadn’t noticed the limp, but then he’d been dangling her over his shoulder, so her view had been of his buttocks. His taut, rounded buttocks.
It had been rather a nice view, actually.
“I gather he’s greatly preoccupied with his foundry?” asked Mari.
“Pray, don’t label him unfeeling, Miss Perkins. He cares for the children’s welfare. But if you could find a way to maintain an air of tranquility and peace in the household . . . so that while he is here he may work undisturbed . . . ?”
“Leave everything to me, Mrs. Fairfield. I’ll soon set things to rights.”
“If anyone can achieve such a miracle, I believe it will be you, Miss Perkins. Now I’ll leave you to settle in. I’m sure you’ll retire early today. Don’t worry, you won’t be needed until tomorrow morning, when you may begin your lessons with the twins.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fairfield,” Mari said gratefully. She was drowsy and filled with tea and biscuits.
The large, comfortable-looking bed was beckoning.
Mari rose with the housekeeper and escorted her to the door.
Had she blustered her way into a duke’s household? It hardly seemed believable, and yet here she was.
She opened her cloth bag and drew out her remaining possessions, setting them on the dressing table. A worn hairbrush missing half its bristles; several beloved novels; a Book of Common Prayer with a cracked black leather cover; and a carved wooden rabbit wearing a tattered, green velvet dress.
Last year, Mrs. Crowley, the headmistress at Underwood, had contracted a fever. On her deathbed, stricken by remorse, she’d made an unbelievable confession.
She’d told Mari that, three years past, a lawyer from London, Mr. Arthur Shadwell, had visited Underwood searching for a child who matched Mari’s description and circumstances.
In an act of ill will, the headmistress had informed him that Mari was dead of a fever.
The stinging betrayal of it was still raw and fresh in Mari’s mind.
If someone had been searching for her, it could mean she had a family, that she wasn’t completely alone in life.
It could mean that the stories she’d made up in her mind about a reunion with her mother might prove to be true.
The prayer book and the wooden rabbit had been bundled in her swaddling cloth when she arrived at the orphanage. It wasn’t until after Mrs. Crowley made her confession that Mari had realized they might hold some key to her past.
She opened the prayer book and read the inscription as she had a million times before: “Ann Murray, 1808.”
Who are you, Ann Murray?
Who am I?
There were sure to be a great many Ann Murrays living in London. But how many lawyers named Arthur Shadwell could there be? She would consult a business directory and find him on her very first off day.
She would search until she found answers.
When she’d lost her friend Helena, she’d channeled all of her energy into her studies, determined to escape the orphanage and not die there, friendless and alone.
Whatever the truth of her past turned out to be, the knowing would be so much better than the not knowing.
To keep this post, she must gain the confidence and trust of the twins and make their lessons diverting enough to keep them from running away again.
And she must continue to deceive the duke into believing she was superior enough to be their governess. She needn’t tell any outright lies, only small untruths and omissions.
He wasn’t anything like the man she had pictured. He wasn’t a monster. He was a man with vision, building engines to fight fires. A man who cared for his illegitimate children.
Which was, perhaps, more dangerous than his broad shoulders and his handsome face.
Kneeling at her feet. Cutting her bootlaces.
Heat rippled through her body as she unbraided her hair and removed her gown. She must be constantly on her guard. She was pretending to be a superior governess, one who would never permit anything as maudlin as sentiment to muddle her thinking.
Feeling anything other than practical and businesslike emotions for her employer was completely forbidden.
She must stay as far from him as possible.
He might have a list of objections, but she had a list of her own.
He was far too abrupt and changeful.
Entirely too gruff and given to growling.
More attentive to his mistresses and engines than his children.
And he had a most alarming way of using his enormous size to intimidate a girl.
Had it been absolutely necessary to lift her clear off the carpet and dangle her about like a kite in the wind before throwing her over his shoulder?
And why did a delicious little thrill ignite in her mind every time she thought about his large hands gripping her waist?
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And that, she reflected, was the most objectionable trait of all.
The elicitation of illicit thrills.
Utterly unforgivable.
And most definitely to be avoided.
Chapter 4
High-pitched screaming woke Mari the next morning: the children.
She fumbled into her stays and black dress. There was a new pair of bootlaces laid out on a table. Were they from the duke?
The memory of his roughened fingertips brushing her ankle unwound in her mind as she coiled her braids atop her head. Ruthlessly, she pinned her hair, and her propriety, firmly into place.
She had no time for daydreaming about dukes. It sounded as though his offspring were attempting to murder one another. If she didn’t calm them and restore order to the household she’d be out on her ear with only a new pair of bootlaces to show for her troubles.
She followed the screams to the nursery and paused inside the doorway.
Well she certainly had her work cut out for her.
A shirtless Michel was chasing a shrieking Mrs. Brill through the nursery, his skinny arms flailing and one hand clutching the snake.
Adele stood atop the toy chest, hands clasped in front of her, elbows out, proclaiming doggerel at the top of her voice, “I once knew a nursemaid named Brill, who thought fleeing from snakes quite a thrill. The snake it did slither, the nursemaid did quiver, and—”
Mari placed two fingers between her lips and produced her most earsplitting whistle.
Everyone froze and stared at her.
A superior governess would never resort to anything so vulgar as a street vendor’s whistle, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Merciful Heavens,” huffed Mrs. Brill, her breath coming in puffs. “This is simply the last straw. I’m giving my notice. I leave them with you, Miss Perkins. You see if you can control the little heathens.”
“Please don’t leave—”
“My mind is quite made up.” Mrs. Brill hurried out of the room.
Adele and Michel exchanged glances. “We didn’t mean for her to leave forever,” said Michel.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have chased her with a snake.”
Mari knew she must be firm with the children, yet she sensed that scolding them would only make them mistrust her. “Poor Trix.” She made a sad face. “He has a terrible case of vertigo.”
“What’s that?” Michel held the wriggling snake close to his face. “It’s not fatal, is it? I don’t see any spots.”
“He’s dizzy,” Mari said. “How would you like to be rushed about the room like a spinning top? And what if he has to do the necessary? Poor dear.”
She marched to Michel and held out her palm.
He gave her the snake.
She carried him to the water jug.
Michel followed. “Do snakes use the privy?”
Mari hid a smile. Introducing the subject of bodily functions never failed to capture the interest of children.
“Not in the same way as humans do.” Mari retied the muslin. “Snakes can go a whole year without excretions.”
“Bof.” Michel made a very French noise of astonishment. “A whole year?”
“How do you know?” asked Adele, who had joined them by Trix’s jug.
“Because I read encyclopedias,” replied Mari. “You may wish to do the same.”
“I could write a verse about reptilian excretions,” Adele said.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” replied Mari.
“What rhymes with excretions?”
“Now, what was all of that about?” asked Mari.
“Nurse tried to dress me in this.” Michel scooped a frilled shirt with lace at the cuffs from the floor. “I’d be a fribbling milksop.”
“I think you’d be bee-yoo-tee-ful,” said Adele with a smirk.
“I won’t wear it.”
“It’s not very practical, I’ll admit. Let’s find you something a little less lordly, shall we?” Mari rummaged through the wardrobe in the adjoining bedchamber and found a plain white lawn shirt for Michel.
She popped his thin arms through the armholes and pulled the shirt down. “You’ll have to apologize to Mrs. Fairfield, you know. For chasing away Mrs. Brill. Now I’ll have to be your nursemaid as well as your governess.”
“Apologize, apologize, apologize. That’s all we ever do.” Michel kicked at a chair.
“We’re bad. That’s what we are. We’re bad and we’re only going to get worse, just you wait and see.” Adele crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ll run away and join a traveling show. We’ve got many talents. And people will pay to see them.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Mari. “You’ll have to show me all of them someday. I’d like to know what it is you do when you run away.” Perform for money? And why would they need money when they had the expensive toys and clothing the duke showered them with? “But what’s all this talk about being bad?”
“Everyone says we’re bad,” said Michel.
Adele frowned. “Miss Dunkirk rapped our knuckles with a ruler.”
Mari’s heart squeezed. “I’ll never strike you,” she promised.
Michel tilted his head. “No matter how bad we are?”
“No matter the sin. We’ll reason through things together with our words.”
“But we have ever so many sins and vices.” Michel pointed at a large blackboard hung on the far wall, covered with writing in blunt chalk letters.
“What are the vices of youth?” Mari read. “Peevishness, Pride, Selfishness, Deceit, Uncleanliness, Heedlessness, Rashness, Fickleness, A tattling humor . . .”
She clenched her fists. She was intimately familiar with the pious, shaming methods of instruction favored by sanctimonious disciplinarians.
She’d been punished for the sins of pride and deceitfulness. Which just meant she hadn’t learned to keep her mouth closed, yet.
She’d been made to stand alone in the front of the schoolroom, atop a chair, for hours on end . . . until her legs trembled and she’d nearly fainted.
Until every other girl had gone to supper and the sun had sunk from the sky, leaving her in the cold and the dark.
She shivered.
She couldn’t believe the duke had allowed such teachings in his home. Did he not monitor what his children were learning?
Grabbing the rag that hung on a hook nearby, Mari scrubbed away the damaging words.
Next she scooped up the two copies of Dr. Pritchard’s Catechisms for Children, and dumped them into the dustbin.
Michel’s eyes widened. “You can’t throw books away.”
“I can if they’re tiresome rubbish. I’ll find better books for you to read.”
“You’ll learn to hate us, too.” Adele’s lip quivered. “Because we’re bastards.”
Mari froze. “Where did you hear that?”
“Miss Dunkirk told the second housemaid that we were sunburnt infidel bastards who didn’t deserve an English education,” said Michel.
“I found it in the dictionary.” Adele raised her finger. “Bastard: a child begotten and born out of wedlock; an illegitimate or spurious child.”
“A bad child,” said Michel.
Mari’s heart cleaved in half like a dry log beneath a sharp blade.
She should have jabbed Miss Dunkirk with a hairpin when she had the chance.
She walked to the bookshelf and found a dictionary, opening it at random.
“Bastard,” she proclaimed, running her finger along the text as if reading from the book. “A child simply bursting with potential, promise, and possibilities.”
“That’s not what it says,” said Adele.
“It most certainly does. Are you contradicting me, young lady?”
“No, miss.”
“No, Miss Perkins,” she corrected. “Now then, children. Coats, hats, boots.” She returned the dictionary to the shelf and clapped her hands together. “Well don’t stand there staring. Quickly now. We’
re going for a walk.”
“Don’t want to go for a walk,” said Michel, glowering at her.
“I’ll buy you some boiled sweets.” She wasn’t above a bit of bribery, even if it meant depleting her small store of coins.
She’d hit upon a winning argument.
They scrambled for their coats, which were hanging on pegs by the wardrobe.
The outdoors was the best place for them. They had been curled in on themselves, just surviving, for so long.
What they required was fresh air and freedom.
Today she must be the Pied Piper. Lead them on an adventure.
“Follow me, children. Shipshape and Bristol fashion, if you please.”
Edgar hoped Miss Perkins was faring better today than Bonny Brindle, the prizefighter he’d wagered his money on.
Brindle was receiving a right drubbing, staggering about the sawdust-covered floor like a drunken sailor on a pitching boat.
“Flatten him!” shouted the Duke of Westbury, cheering for Brindle’s opponent, a hulking pugilist appropriately named Big Ben.
Edgar had reluctantly agreed to meet his childhood friend, whom everyone called West, at the Red Lion public house, because the duke had refused to meet anywhere else.
Attending illegal boxing matches was hardly a priority for Edgar, but he needed to convince West to allow the railway to run through the edge of his pleasure estate, Westbury Abbey, near Watford.
And so here he was. Not where he should be, at his foundry, working on the engine design. But here, in a crowd of bloodthirsty, inebriated men, with the scent of stale ale and sweat filling his nostrils.
There were so many other, less nauseating, odors.
Sweet lilac and warm woman, for example.
Mari-rhymes-with-starry.
What a whimsical way to describe oneself.
She may pretend to be strict, no-nonsense, and cut from the same cloth as Miss Dunkirk, but he imagined Miss Perkins had a wildly romantic streak.
There was something about the light flickering in her blue eyes—the glimmer of hope and optimism.
She probably memorized poetry while bathing. With rose petals bobbing in the bathwater.
He’d like to bob in her bathwater.