by Darcy Burke
***
Two weeks later, after yet another lonesome supper, Violet headed toward her bedchamber with the curious sensation that her world was teetering on the brink.
Lily was soaking up art history and color theory like broth to bread. Mr. Waldegrave had made a habit of spending the least time possible in the company of his governess, but when she did catch him looking, his eyes were both haunted and hungry. And the outside world lurked just outside the abbey walls, ready to gobble her whole and spit her into the fire should she dare to show her face.
Or was she overworrying? Perhaps she was safely sequestered here at Waldegrave Abbey. In the nearly two months since fleeing the Livingston School for Girls, her biggest concern was having developed feelings for the occupants of the abbey. But she could not allow herself to forget that just because she didn’t leave its confines did not mean that the outside world didn’t exist.
“Miss Smythe?” came a deep voice from just behind her shoulder.
She spun around, one hand pressed to her heart. “Mr. Roper! You gave me quite a start. May I help you?”
“That depends.” His gaze was uncharacteristically merry. “Do you play at cards, Miss Smythe?”
She offered a sly smile. “I win at cards.”
The corners of Mr. Roper’s eyes crinkled and the faintest hint of a dimple peeked betwixt the pink scars marring one side of his face. He offered his arm. “That almost sounds like a challenge.”
“Almost?” Her sense of unreality seemed to double as she placed her fingers on the manservant’s sleeve. “Then I shall strive to choose my words more carefully.”
“If you have half as much talent as you do confidence, then perhaps my efforts are better served convincing you to be my partner, rather than my opponent.”
She glanced up at him. “Partner against whom?”
“Cook and Mrs. Tumsen. For years, the three of us have whiled away the occasional rainy evening taking turns at piquet and vingt-et-un.”
“And you’re inviting me to join you?”
“We are begging,” he corrected with a hesitant smile. “I would have asked sooner, but we are a close group and wished to wait until we were certain you intended to stay. You cannot fathom our paroxysms of delight at finally having a fourth.”
Until tonight, Violet would not have been able to imagine Mr. Roper experiencing delight over much of anything, much less have paroxysms. But it was her own fault for not giving it a single thought. He was right to worry she might leave. She had never stayed put anywhere, and for good reason. Eventually, everything turned sour and escape became the only choice.
As much as she loved the abbey, she’d known from the first it was only temporary. No matter what, she needed to go to London, to face her charges, to clear her name. She would not be staying. But even if she could have confessed the truth, she wouldn’t do so. Mr. Roper’s invitation to join a group of friends thrilled her more than he would ever know.
He led her down a series of tunnels to an outbuilding she had not previously visited. Candlelight glowed from beneath closed doors and spilled directly into the passageway from chambers left invitingly ajar.
This was the servants’ quarters, she realized belatedly. She’d presumed all the inhabitants of the abbey to be as isolated and solitary as the Waldegraves and herself, but what basis had she for that assumption? The abbey was enormous and the staff must sleep somewhere when they were not cooking meals or cleaning chambers or trimming hedgerows or washing linens. Her status as governess elevated her just enough to be relegated to the empty wasteland between guest and servant. No doubt her sumptuous bedchamber stranded in the abbey center had been meant to entice her to stay, but its very solitude had done her no favors.
Laughter spilled from one of the adjoining chambers. Mr. Roper pushed open the door and ushered her inside.
Mrs. Tumsen and the ruddy-whiskered Cook lounged behind a large wooden table laden with playing cards, tortoise-shell markers, mother-of-pearl counting fish, gilt-edged teacups, and a silver flask.
Violet stared. The value of the carelessly strewn whist markers alone likely surpassed Mrs. Tumsen’s monthly wages. There was nothing to keep such riches—or the servants themselves—from walking right out the door, never to be seen again. Nothing except their own staunch loyalty. Unlike Mr. Waldegrave and his daughter, the staff was not permanently quarantined within this luxurious prison. They stayed day after day, year after year, because they wished to. Because they cared for him and for each other.
Still chuckling over something Mrs. Tumsen had said, Cook lumbered to his feet and held a meaty hand out to Violet. “Roper, you silver-tongued devil. You managed it, after all.”
“Miss Smythe!” Mrs. Tumsen sprang unsteadily to her feet. “I so hoped you would come. Sit, sit! Have some tea. Or rather, have a teacup with a bit o’ Cook’s whiskey to take the edge off.”
Laughing, Violet declined the whiskey and allowed Mr. Roper to seat her at the table. In short order, the chips were distributed, the deck shuffled and dealt, and the noise level at least double its previous pitch. By the time the flask was empty and the majority of the whist points stacked in Mr. Roper’s and her favor, she was startled to catch sight of the clock’s hands marking half-midnight.
“Have we really been playing for four hours?” she asked in surprise. Her eyelids were drooping and her cheeks ached from laughing.
“We’ve been playing,” Mr. Roper corrected drolly. “These two have paid more attention to their teacups than their trump cards. As much as I enjoyed having a partner with a head for the game, next time we’ll have to oppose each other if we’re to have any competition at all.”
She jerked upright. “Next time?”
Alarmed, Cook jabbed his empty flask in her direction. “You will return, will you not? At least once a week, you’ll find us right here in this very room. We’d love for you to join us.”
Violet’s insides warmed. “I would be honored.”
***
Weeks later, Alistair still could not scrub the passionate embrace with his daughter’s governess from his mind.
At first, their occasional interactions took place in awkward silence. He, from embarrassment over his shameful behavior. She, for perhaps the same reason, although in her case it was in no way deserved. She was a woman, and he a man. She was a servant, and he the employer. She was a miracle-worker, and he a monster who had taken advantage of the moment. She had meant to comfort. He had wanted more.
He shoved his chair back from his desk with a sigh. What he wanted was not to be had. Until Lillian was cured and his family restored, he had no right to even think about his own selfish desires, much less indulge them. And avoiding the innocent Miss Smythe was hardly beneficial. He knew what living in Waldegrave Abbey was like. By increasing her solitude, he likely had also been increasing her misery.
He pushed to his feet. He had lost his wife, and very nearly his daughter, and if he was not careful, he would soon lose the new governess as well. Perhaps, even now, she was planning to leave. Agitated, he threaded his fingers through his hair.
It had been over a month, had it not? She had surpassed the terms of their verbal arrangement. He had tried to make her stay here as comfortable as possible—and, certainly, he had not pressed his attentions on her anew—but what advantage could Waldegrave Abbey possibly offer over the thousand better situations available to a young woman? Particularly when he could hardly deny her a heartfelt recommendation, should any future employer ask for references. He doubted she could say the same. The barest moment in her company, and he was drowning in the memory of their stolen kisses, lost anew in the curve of her eyelashes or the curl of a chestnut tendril against her throat. He was abhorrent.
What kind of man took such liberties with an employee he was honor-bound to protect? What kind of father mauled his daughter’s teacher? What kind of husband dreamt not of the beloved wife buried out behind his window, but of a woman who mere weeks before had been an i
nnocent stranger seeking only a moment’s shelter?
Yet he had to make her stay.
She had given Lillian something that all his money had failed to buy. Hope. All he had ever managed to bring his daughter were roses. Such a trite, worthless gesture: flowers. When what he truly wanted to give her was a cure. An answer, a potion, a magic trick from Satan’s own hand—he would gladly sell his soul in exchange for the freedom of his daughter’s.
He would not consider himself a success until the day he could finally take Lillian for a walk in the sun. But there were two good things he had managed to bring into her life. The first was her mother.
The second, of course, was Miss Smythe.
An angel in her own right, the heaven-sent governess was an unceasing marvel, from the moment she blew through the front door to the daily miracles she wrought upon Lillian. The clawing, biting, desperately unhappy child that the superstitious servants of four years ago had feared a witch or a vampire, was now almost eerily well-behaved. She spoke with politesse, did simple sums in her head, and could recite the capital cities and royal families of every country in Western Europe. Even the maids were willing to attend her once again. All because Lillian worshiped the very deserving Miss Smythe.
Alistair quite worshiped her himself.
He consulted his fob. Afternoon lessons should be coming to a close, which would make this the perfect time to let her know about the small hope that still shone on the horizon: the upcoming meeting of minds, here at Waldegrave Abbey. Dozens of invitations had been sent. Less than half had responded. A fraction of those had agreed. But the handful of scientists and great thinkers that had condescended to spend a weekend debating potential remedies for acute sunsickness were among the greatest minds in all of England. Perhaps, this time, a cure could be found.
Perhaps it would finally be his turn to bring about a miracle.
He tossed his pince-nez upon the meager stack of accepted invitations. If he was to maximize the potential of this meeting of the minds, he ought to ensure Miss Smythe’s presence. Although she was no royal physician or renowned scientist, she had more than proven her ability to understand Lillian’s needs.
However, he must take care to remind her that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Alistair was the afflicted party. The visitors could never learn of Lillian’s existence or the severity of her condition. He would not risk the loss of his daughter to science.
He’d read enough journal articles to know there was no limit to the experimentation performed in such laboratories. Subjects often perished from blood loss or adverse reactions. Those who lived were never the same. Alistair would rather die than see Lillian harmed in any way.
He rose from his chair and strode from his office to the corridor—only to collide with Roper around the first corner.
“My apologies.” He gave a distracted nod and eased past his manservant.
“The apology is mine, master,” Roper returned. “I was in too great a hurry to see you.”
“Me?” Alistair frowned in confusion, then shook his head. Of course, him. Were they not but a dozen paces from the office door? And, upon closer inspection, was that not another missive upon the silver tray? “Thank you, Roper.”
Alistair slid the folded parchment into his jacket pocket and continued on his way. No sense going back to his office just to add another layer to the pile of mail upon his desk. Not if he was still hoping to catch Miss Smythe. Besides, it was likely yet another refusal to his scientific conclave. Bad news could certainly wait. Right now, he needed to focus on how to handle Miss Smythe.
Or, rather, how to handle himself so that he didn’t frighten off Miss Smythe.
Lillian needed her governess, and Alistair required Miss Smythe’s ... brain. He would simply take care to be polite, gentlemanly, and—and employerly.
There she was; just stepping from the catacombs. Wispy curls brushed against her slightly flushed cheeks, her blue-violet eyes shining as if she’d just come in from the afternoon sun rather than having only just emerged from the dank tunnels. She seemed almost ... happy. He could not ask for a more opportune moment.
“Miss Smythe,” he called. “If I might have a moment of your time?”
When she spun to face him her eyes were so alive, so merry, that his breath caught. The only coherent thought his brain managed to form was that she was an incredibly lovely young woman. The sort who managed to bring sunshine to each day even when there was none to be found.
And then the pleasure in her eyes vanished. One look at him, at the blackguard who employed her as governess with one breath and then attempted to employ her in far more wicked pursuits in the next, and any hint of happiness was gone. Her gaze and face were once again unreadable. The only light in her eyes now was from the reflection of his candle, flickering just as lifelessly as a cold flame upon the glass eyes of a doll.
“My apologies,” he found himself saying for the second time in a row. “I did not mean to startle you.”
She neither accepted nor rejected his apology, choosing instead to tuck her fingers beneath crossed arms as if struck with a sudden chill. “Mr. Waldegrave. May I be of service?”
“If it is no burden, I do have a favor I would like to ask of you.” He tried, and failed, to read her expression. What could he do to bring back that joy? “It is also time to deliver your wages.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “For next month?”
He gave a quick nod and reached for his coin purse rather than continue searching her face for clues. Either she accepted her wages—implicitly accepting another month’s employ—or she would make clear her intent to terminate their arrangement, having already fulfilled her half of the bargain.
He withdrew his coin purse. “Here you are, then.”
She hesitated a touch longer than he might have hoped, then unfolded her arms and held out a hand. The palm was stained a deep red, as if she’d been picking raspberries, and the cuff of her sleeve held hints of cobalt and aquamarine. Perhaps she feared chastisement for having gotten ink on one of the new gowns he had purchased. Far from angry, Alistair was more than happy to provide whatever she might need. He’d order a dozen more gowns or a thousand more paints, if they would be of use.
He shook a handful of sovereigns into her palm. When her hands automatically curled to cup the coins, he noticed the edges of her fingernails were tinged a subtle green.
He smiled despite himself. “An art lesson today?”
“No.” She frowned at the pile of coins as if able to determine the value of its contents by weight alone. “This is sixteen pounds.”
“Yes.”
“I earn two pounds per week.”
He shrugged lightly. “You’re worth two people.”
Her hand trembled. “You left plenty of coin the day that we ... The last time you were in the schoolroom.”
“You’re worth every cent,” he interrupted, embarrassed anew. “I realize I am not the best employer and, quite possibly, among the worst of men. I cannot apologize enough for my inexcusable attempt to ... compromise your integrity. I have sworn not to repeat the offense, and I have kept my promise. Will you not stay another month?” When she did not immediately respond, Alistair took a deep breath. Men did not beg. Yet for his child, he would do anything. “Not for me. Stay for Lillian. Please.”
Miss Smythe’s internal thoughts remained inscrutable. One edge of her mouth quirked briefly, as if tempted to smile, but her eyes looked more haunted than happy. “Not for you,” she repeated softly. “For Lillian.”
Not sure how else to respond, he simply nodded.
After a moment, she lowered her gaze to the jumble of sovereigns in her hand. Slowly, she transferred them from the right hand to the left, as if not at all convinced sixteen pounds was worth the burden of Waldegrave Abbey.
Just when he was about to offer twenty or fifty or any quantity she might desire, she nodded her agreement. He swore he could hear angels singing.
“Th
ank you,” he said with a quick smile, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. She would stay. Thank God, she would stay. “You won’t regret it.”
The fleeting arch to her brows indicated she already quite regretted it, but Miss Smythe blessedly tucked the coins in her pocket without further recrimination. “And the favor?”
“Right.” Alistair tapped the breast pocket containing the latest bit of correspondence. “A half-dozen scientists and surgeons are meeting to discuss potential cures for sunsickness. I admit to being very hopeful we all can finally step from the shadows.”
“But that’s wonderful!” This time, her smile was full and genuine.
“Thank you. In the meantime, I am trying to keep a clear head. Even if genius strikes, I am not certain how long it will be until Lillian is cured—”
“And you, of course.”
“Both of us.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Although not precisely what she meant, she was absolutely correct: the only thing that would cure him was a cure for Lillian. “But I would like someone else present who has Lillian’s best interests in mind. Namely you, if you don’t mind. Just please recall that no one may know of my daughter’s existence, so it is important to always speak as if I alone am the sufferer of the sun allergy. And—”
“Me?” she interrupted with a nervous laugh. “I cannot possibly attend. No, it is much better I stay and take care of Miss Lillian while you are off at your meeting. How many days will you be gone?”
“One weekend. But I won’t be gone. I’ll be here.”
She frowned. “But you said—”
“The cabal is here. I cannot leave Lillian.”
“Here?” she repeated in horror. She glanced over her shoulders as if half expecting the wall sconce to rain scientists upon them. “In Waldegrave Abbey?”
“I am aware it is no castle,” he rejoined stiffly. “But please understand my position. I cannot leave my daughter, nor can I—”
“I know, I know, you cannot withstand the sun,” she interrupted, her eyes closing briefly as if in pain. “I don’t know why I was thinking you’d be traveling to London or somesuch when you cannot even go to market ... but dear God. A party? Coming here?”