And then of course he’d ruined it with his smirk when he saw her in that big green bag. Mrs. MacLaren had brought back a frightful compilation of clothes yesterday, too ugly for even the impoverished islanders to wear. Most looked as if they were the remnants of a failed church jumble sale, sent over the water by well-meaning do-gooders. Who in their right mind would ever wear the hideous purple-and-scarlet-striped gown she had on today? It had made her dizzy to see herself in the looking glass this morning.
Gemma put the book back and took down another. More scribbling inside. On the fourteenth book, she finally found some evidence of Mr. Ross’s previous life, a newspaper clipping pressed between the pages. It advertised the latest effort by the gothic romance author who wrote the wildly popular Courtesan Court series. Those books were a secret sin for the girls at Miss Meredith’s—curious that a gentleman would care about such entertainment. To her delight, she swept through the shelves and found a nearly complete set, well-thumbed, if she were any judge. It seemed Mr. Ross had catholic tastes, or at least the taste of a fifteen-year-old girl. No, that was unfair—the series attracted countesses and chambermaids alike. Whoever wrote them must have made a fortune.
For a second, Gemma wondered if Mr. Ross himself was the author. Impossible. No gentleman could have the perspicacity and wit of the anonymous “Lady X” who wrote them. There were several volumes that she had not read, and she put them aside. Surely Mr. Ross would not begrudge her reading in her spare time. If she ever had any. Marc was a handful.
To emphasize that point, he had abandoned his drumming and stood before her, his chubby arms raised. “Up!” he begged.
He was so smart, already picking up English and Gaelic. Her mother had always claimed the best time to teach a child a foreign language was when they were learning their own native tongue. Francesca would have loved this little boy.
Gemma swooped him up for a cuddle, and he settled his nose into the crook of her neck.
“That tickles,” she smiled down on him. She wiggled her fingers on his sides, and he screamed in delight, right in her left ear. “Oh, I see you’re protecting your papa’s privacy. I was bad, wasn’t I, snooping about. I wish you could tell me what I long to know.”
“And what is that, Miss Peartree?”
Good lord. Andrew Ross stood like a thundercloud in the doorway. Marc began to whimper. Gemma snatched her list from the desk and stuffed it into her apron pocket. “Oh! You startled me.”
“What are you doing in my library?”
“Why, looking at books, of course! I found three I’ve been longing to know about,” she prevaricated, hoping he would confuse what she said now with what she said seconds ago. “The Lady X Courtesan Court books. They’re among my favorites. You’re back from the village rather soon.” She set Marc down on the rug, where he picked up the wooden spoon and pretended to eat from the empty pot.
“The shop was closed.” Mr. Ross looked as if he wanted to say more, so she went on the attack.
“I’m glad you’re back. We need to discuss my time off, so I can actually read these books. You can’t possibly expect me to spend twenty-four hours a day seven days a week looking after Marc without any kind of break.”
She could see from the surprise on his face he had expected exactly that. “When I was originally hired, I assumed I was coming to a normal sort of household with at least a nursery maid,” she continued patiently. “Gull House is not normal. Mrs. MacLaren cannot be expected to spell me—she has the duties of two or three people as it is.”
“I’ll look into hiring someone,” he said, his voice clipped. “Until I do, I imagine you’ll try to shake me down for an increase in your salary.”
Gemma felt her face flush, never a good sign to those who knew her. “I never said anything of the kind. The terms Lord Christie and I came to were most generous.”
“Then I can’t bribe you to go away?”
“You agreed to give me a two-week grace period to see how Marc and I get on. Should I fail that, I won’t even want the year’s salary you promised me. I’ll get on the next boat without a backward glance.” Foolish, foolish. But he’d set her teeth on edge, accusing her of avariciousness. She needed money like everyone else, especially now that her trunk had gone missing, but was not about to sell her soul to get it.
He gave her a sour smile. “I forgot about our bargain. Before I go employing anyone to please you, let’s see if you please me. Can you manage being a slave to my son for the next thirteen days?”
“As long as I am not a slave to you! But you’re going to have to add staff here eventually. Unless you can’t afford to.”
His face shuttered. “My finances are none of your concern.”
He looked haughty as a duke. Perhaps he really was the runaway son of some grand house, forced to flee to the Continent after killing someone in a duel. Where he met his tempestuous Italian bride who drove him mad with desire. Until she came to her senses and tossed him out on his beautiful bottom.
Gemma had noticed. The man’s clothes were exquisitely and expensively tailored. He definitely had money. And eclectic taste in literature and the arts and sciences, if she were to judge him by his book covers.
But what healthy young man would choose to bury himself here on this windblown volcanic rock, unless he really was hiding from trouble? Gemma’s curiosity had only intensified from her aborted search. The mysterious Mr. Ross was concealing something, she was sure of it.
Just as she harbored one or two regrets of her own.
Marc chose this moment to commence beating on his pot. Gemma jumped a mile.
“You really have to find something else for my son to occupy himself with. At this rate, he’ll grow up to be a chef and we’ll all be deaf.”
“There’s nothing wrong in good, honest employment. Those that provide nourishment and sustenance to people should be valued, not mocked,” she said primly.
“I have greater hopes for Marc.”
“Do you want him to follow in your footsteps?”
A look of horror crossed Mr. Ross’s face so quickly Gemma was not entirely sure she’d seen it. “I want him to have the freedom to choose what he is to be.”
“An admirable goal.” Gemma bent to pick up Marc again. “Did you ever do one of your drawings for Mr. MacLaren yesterday? Sketch a set of blocks? They would be far less noisy unless Marc decided to throw them at you. I’m surprised you didn’t pack his toys when you left Italy. Surely he had some.”
“There was great confusion when Giu—when my wife died. I thought it best to make a clean break.”
“Hmm. I cannot agree with you. Children prefer stability. Comfort and familiarity.”
“I know that now. Let’s agree, Miss Peartree, that I was a very poor father before. I’m learning every day.”
Gemma was surprised by his humble admission. Perhaps he wasn’t a duke’s son after all. Cooing to Marc, she made for the door to leave the man alone with his books.
His words stopped her in her tracks. “I’ll have that piece of paper you hid in your pocket.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I shall not give it. You looked as guilty as a child caught stealing from a cookie jar when I looked into the room. The note, please.”
What had she written that would damn her? Feeling mulish, she fished the crumpled list from her pocket.
“ ‘Name?’ That’s all? What does this mean, Miss Peartree?”
“Uh, nothing, really. I was going to write down a list of books I wished to borrow from you. So that we were clear that I had them, and you couldn’t accuse me of stealing them.”
“Are you frequently accused of stealing from your employers, Miss Peartree?”
“Of course not. But until I know you better, I did not want to take any chances. Some gentlemen are very particular about their libraries.”
“I am not one of them. I would never begrudge anyone their love of reading, one’s chance to improve one’s mind. I daresay even you
could stand some improvement.”
“And you as well,” she said dryly. It seemed her quick thinking—lying, really—had saved her from an uncomfortable few minutes. She shifted Marc to her other shoulder. “I’m going to take Marc upstairs for his morning rest.”
“Before you go, I have another question for you.”
Gemma sighed. Escape had been too easy.
“What is your name, Miss Peartree?”
She couldn’t help but giggle. “Listen to yourself, sir, and you will have your answer.”
“Your given name, Miss Peartree. I’d like to know it.”
“Why? You are my employer, Mr. Ross, not my friend.”
“Nevertheless.” He stood, waiting. Well, he could wait forever. For some perverse reason, she did not ever want to hear her Christian name from his lips. It would be too intimate. Too dangerous.
“I’m sorry, sir. My name is mine.”
The look on his face was most gratifying. Singing to Marc up the staircase, she would save her investigation for another day.
The little brat. He’d caught her red-handed pilfering through his things, and somehow she’d managed to make him feel in the wrong.
And she was perfectly right. Had he expected her to assume all the responsibility for Marc without any respite? Marc had several nursemaids at the villa, and of course there was a raft of other servants seeing to the duca and duchessa. Gull House was a far cry from the luxury the child had known. Its starkness was almost a welcome punishment to Andrew, but Miss Peartree certainly could not have expected such hardship. She’d never stay.
And that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? One way or another, he would drive her off. He had to. She was a little brown tick burrowing under his skin, growing in importance every day. She was a danger to his resolve for all she was a blessing to his son. The longer she stayed, the more he and his son would come to depend upon her, and then it would be impossible to get rid of her.
Andrew supposed he should wait to dispatch her at least until her trunk arrived. He couldn’t send her out into the world looking like a ragamuffin dwarf. And if her belongings didn’t come, he’d have to pay to outfit her from the skin out. That wouldn’t be a problem—he had, contrary to her suspicions, plenty of money. More than he could spend in a lifetime here, for sure, even if he bought Marc every toy the child could ever want.
He sat at his desk composing another letter to Lord Edward Christie. His correspondence could not go out until the next boat came, but it helped center Andrew to write of his predicament. He might never even post these daily diatribes, for he counted on Edward’s goodwill to stock Gull House with the necessities until he found his own man of business. Whom Christie would hire for him, just as he’d hired Miss Pernicious Peartree. It bedeviled Andrew that he had to rely on Caroline’s husband, but he really had no choice.
Andrew hated to depend on anyone but himself. People were bound to disappoint, if not actually cause despair. He’d learned that at a very early age. His son must never know any fraction of the sorrow he’d experienced as a child. Andrew was all Marc had now, and for once, he would do the right and honorable thing.
Even here in this Scottish hellhole.
CHAPTER 6
“What is your Christian name, Miss Peartree?” He was tired of thinking of her so formally in his nightly fantasies. It was probably something prosaic, like Mary or Margaret, but he really had to know. It had become something of an obsession for him, but from the looks of her, she still wasn’t going to tell him.
“I have not given you leave to call me anything but Miss Peartree, nor will I,” she sniffed. She crumbled a muffin and handed it to Marc. His son shredded it even further before he popped it in his mouth, fist and all. The boy was blooming and had put on weight under Miss Peartree’s vigilant care. Mrs. MacLaren’s fine, simple cooking helped, too. Andrew was getting somewhat stout himself. It was impossible to tell the effect on Miss Peartree, however. She was dwarfed in her borrowed clothes. Evidently the largest women on the island had pitched in to donate their shapeless cast-offs. If Miss Peartree stayed, he would have to order her something better than the rough homespun that hung from her tiny frame.
“Elizabeth.”
She did not respond except to cut a sausage in thirds for his son.
“Calliope.”
She pursed her lips. “My mother was not so fanciful, sir.”
“Jane, then.”
She shook her head and ate her eggs. “Bene, e Marc? So good.”
“Goo!” his son shouted.
“Si. Yes. Good.” Miss Peartree’s radiant smile tripped Andrew’s hard heart.
She pointed to her plate. “Uova. Eggs.”
“Eck!”
“Eat yours, love. Mangia.”
Marc shoveled his spoon into the eggs and got most of the contents in his mouth. “Goo eck.”
“You’re making remarkable progress.”
“Marc is a remarkable boy,” Miss Peartree said modestly. “He is by far the best pupil I’ve ever had.”
“How long have you been at this sort of work, Miss Peartree? If you won’t tell me your name, at least tell me your age.”
“A gentleman never asks a lady her age, even if the lady is in his employ.” She blotted her lips on her napkin. Andrew envied the linen.
“Ah, but I have the feeling you don’t think me much of a gentleman.”
“It does not matter one whit what I think, Mr. Ross. I am interested in Marc, not you. And now that you’ve brought it up,” she said, lowering her voice, “I would appreciate it if you did not always look at me so. I thought I made that clear. We are still in our two-week trial period.”
Andrew feigned innocence. “What do you mean, Miss Peartree? Evalina? Alberta?”
“As if you’d like to gobble me up like Marc did his muffin.”
“Miss Peartree! I assure you I don’t want to turn you into a pile of crumbs.” Now, to slather her with jam or honey might be a tasty treat indeed.
“And I have no wish to be turned,” she said with asperity. “But I do have an idea which I’d like to present to you if you could divert your attention to something serious.”
Andrew took a sip of blistering hot coffee. Mrs. MacLaren must know precisely what he wanted to do with his tongue and was discouraging him in the only way available to her. “I am all ears, Miss Peartree.”
“I believe it would benefit Marc if he could share his lessons with a few of the village children. They are as ignorant of the English language as he is. Lessons would be more in the way of play, of course. It would help socialize him, too.”
“The boy is not even three years old. Surely he’s too young for school.”
“Of course. I’m not talking about giving Marc a slate and expecting him to write his numbers. But there is much he could do with two or three little ones like himself.”
Andrew looked at his son, who was placing a glob of egg on his spoon to carry to his mouth. The egg slipped between his fingers, and with determination Marc picked up the egg and tried again. Quite a bit of his breakfast seemed to be on him rather than in him.
“Isn’t Marc enough for you to handle, Miss Peartree?”
“I’m sure I could manage a few more children for an hour or so a day, sir. For that matter, I would love to start a little school for the older children. Once I pass my trial, of course. When you hire a village girl to assist me. If you employed more people from the settlement and founded a school, you will increase your consequence here. It would behoove you to look after your people.”
His people! As though he was a feudal lord. The MacEwan owned the rest of the island, absent landlord that he was. The idea that Andrew had an obligation to anybody was ludicrous.
“I did not employ you to teach the world, Miss Peartree, just one small boy. Cecily. Sarah.”
Miss Peartree frowned at him, all traces of good humor gone. “What I am proposing would be of benefit to us all. You’d engender the goodwill of the islanders,
Marc would have playmates, and the local children would have advantages. I’m perfectly capable of tending to Marc and instructing the others for an hour or two.”
“I cannot agree. Unless, perhaps—” He broke off, watching the hope return to her piquant face. “If you tell me your name, I might consider your idea.”
Miss Peartree crumpled her napkin and pulled Marc from his high chair. “I, too, cannot agree. There is no need for an employer to know anything so personal about his employee.”
“Good lord. It’s only a name. You know mine. What if I had to write you a bank draft instead of pay you in coin? Is your name so awful you’re ashamed of it? Griselda, perhaps? Horatia? Clytemnestra?”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Ross,” she said, clutching a sticky Marc to her chest. “If you have need of us, we will be in the nursery.”
She stomped off, or stomped off as loudly as someone her slight size could muster. She was just a little slip of a thing, and it was outrageous to Andrew that she could have provoked him so completely. He saw her glistening wet body rising from the bathtub in his mind’s eye at the most inconvenient times, with the resultant effect.
She needed to go. There would be no school or houseful of children here for his son. He’d find some old battle-ax to care for Marc and keep him to the straight-and-narrow path he’d chosen in his newest incarnation. It was a jest of the vastest proportions that his lust had been so piqued by a girl who looked enough like a boy to pass for one, barring her magnificent fall of caramel hair. Andrew dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter and pushed himself away from the table.
How would he spend his day? It was storming again, storming always, it seemed. The ocean beyond the grassy point was gray-green and furious, the rain pelting against the wavy glass. His arm ached like the devil with the damp, but that was no excuse for him to skip his exercises. If he didn’t do what his Parisian doctor ordered, his limb would atrophy—just as his brain was becoming stunted by the lack of stimulation here. He’d been in residence just a few days and already was regretting it.
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