Demons of Fenley Marsh

by Bancroft, Blair

  The front door swung open, interrupting my dire thoughts. A butler austere enough for Grosvenor Square, bid us enter then turned us over to the housekeeper, a blessedly cheerful person who had me revising my first impression of Lunsford Hall in a few short minutes. Mrs. Allard led us up two flights of stairs and down a corridor to a spacious bedchamber overlooking the waving grass and winding channels of a vast salt marsh. Early afternoon sun streamed through the generous-sized windows. The walls were papered in an Oriental print, the bedcovering, hangings, draperies, and a small sofa done up in appealing shades of peach, pale rose, and cream.

  “But this is a guest room,” I exclaimed. “Surely too fine for a governess.”

  “Master’s orders, ma’am. There’s a cot in the dressing room, where the boy can sleep until he is better acquainted with Lord Kempton.” A look I could not identify flashed across her face, instantly replaced by something between bland and benign. “Time enough to share the nursery after we see how they get on,” she added on a murmur.

  “How very thoughtful. Thank you, Mrs. Allard.” Relief flooded through me. Until this moment I had not realized how concerned I’d been. To be able to keep Chas near me seemed the most thoughtful gesture my employer could possibly make, instantly raising him from possible monster to the height of my esteem. With a broad smile I turned to Chas, only to find tears of relief in his eyes. Dear God, his fears must have been worse than mine. Clearly, the talk in the coach had not gone over his head. Particularly not after what had happened in Kent.

  “Mrs. Allard, please tell— But no. I shall thank Mr. Lunsford myself. When may I meet him?”

  “Mr. Lunsford wishes you to come to bookroom after you’re settled in, ma’am. I’ll be sending Josie up to unpack your things, and she can keep an eye on the boy. But no need to rush, my dear. Take your time to primp a bit. The master may be shy of females these days, but there was a time . . .”

  An inexplicable look of sorrow dimmed the housekeeper’s pleasant round face. She leaned closer, confiding for my ears alone, “The other two were pretty enough but frightened of their own shadows, don’t you know. But you”—she looked me up and down—“you’re a proper sight for sore eyes, my dear. And made of sterner stuff, I can tell. Do him good to have you flitting about the Hall.” After heaving a deep sigh, the housekeeper added, “Try not to be startled when you see him, Mrs. Tyrell. The master’s all too conscious of his deformity. Such a handsome boy he was . . . Well, there’s no crying over spilt milk, but may that Boney rot on his island. Taking a fine young man and turning him into a monster!” After another head-to-toe inspection of my person and what appeared to be a sharp nod of approval, the housekeeper was out the door, leaving me stunned by her revelations.

  Merciful heavens, what had she meant? The master may be shy of females. That, at least, was good news. I had enough doubts about young Nicholas without worrying about attracting the interest of his uncle. Deformity. Monster. Those words had rather a nasty ring. I decided to take Mrs. Allard’s suggestion about primping seriously.

  I worked diligently at washing up, changed into one of the “governess” gowns I had acquired while in London—a simply cut dark blue muslin to which I had added white Mechlin lace collar and cuffs in an effort to keep from sinking into total obscurity. I brushed out my hair and repinned it into a coil on the nape of my neck. Sight for sore eyes. I peered into the looking glass, teased out a few golden wisps to soften the severity of the style. After a swift glance about the room showed that the maid Josie was fully occupied chatting with Chas while hanging my clothes on pegs in the dressing room, I pinched my cheeks, rubbed my lips together. Oh yes, that was better. The blue eyes looking back at me had taken on a spark of curiosity. In spite of Mrs. Allard’s warnings, I was suddenly eager to meet my employer, to begin this next, very different chapter in my life. The housekeeper had not, after all, said Mr. Lunsford was a monster, merely that he looked like one. And blamed the war with Napoleon. Which meant Mr. Lunsford had likely been a soldier, injured during the long fight against Bonaparte. And that, of course, made him a hero.

  After assuring Chas I would return shortly, I made my way downstairs. A footman ushered me down a corridor on the ground floor, rapped on a door, threw it open, and announced, “Mrs. Tyrell, sir.”

  Evidently the bookroom served as Mr. Lunsford’s study, for a massive desk dominated one end of the room. But the lighting was so dim the man behind the desk was nothing more than a dark shadow. Though the sun was still high in the sky, heavy draperies were drawn over the room’s two windows, the other three walls lined with shelf upon shelf of leather-bound volumes. Two candles inside tubes of glass sat on a reading table a good six feet away from Mr. Lunsford’s desk. Mrs. Allard had been right. He was shy of females, perhaps shy of anyone seeing him.

  Before entering the room, I had steeled my face to immobility, preparing for the worst, and now when I wished to offer a pleasant smile, my facial muscles refused to move.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. I may look like an ogre, but I only eat women and children once a year on All Hallow’s Eve. And that’s a good four months from now. “Sit!”

  Now that my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I caught the wave of a hand toward a chair placed in front of his desk. Pride firmly in place, I crossed the room and sat, looking him squarely in the face, my hands folded primly in my lap.

  Ah! Not as much of a monster as I had feared—anticipate the worst and almost anything is an improvement. What was likely a once-handsome face had been slashed crosswise from forehead to chin, the rosy puckered scar, which caught one corner of his mouth, had twisted his features into a grotesque caricature of the dashing young man he had undoubtedly been. His left hand, displayed with patent deliberation, lay on the desktop. Two fingers had been cut off at the knuckle.

  Dark eyes challenged mine. “I also limp, rather badly,” my employer informed me. He crossed his arms, sat back, and waited for my reaction.

  “I think,” I said, with perhaps not enough care to my role as a subservient governess, “that Bonaparte is on Elba, and you are master of a fine property in Lincolnshire. Thanks to men like you, we won.”

  Oh dear God, when would I ever learn? After such unwarranted familiarity, Chas and I would be on the road back to London before a cat could lick its ear.

  “Bring the candles here,” he barked at me. “Take a good look,” he added as I set them on the desk, one on each side.

  Bile rose in my throat as I studied him. Saber slashes to the cheek were considered by many to be a badge of honor. This was so much worse, however, that honor faded into horror. It appeared he might have lost the sight in one eye as well. Definitely a face to frighten small children, the weak-minded, and those who believed in chimeras that went bump in the night.

  “I am so very sorry,” I said, “but you’ll not frighten me off. I’m made of sterner stuff.”

  “And your boy?”

  “He will grow accustomed. As I will. Beauty is skin deep, so is ugliness. Your character, I trust, does not match your façade.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Dark eyes challenged my unabashed optimism.

  A moment of truth. “Perhaps because I have seen a monster—one with as handsome a face as a man could wish, yet black to his very soul. I assure you I have not given up my comfortable life in Kent for the position of governess for no reason.”

  He looked at me, really looked at me, assessing me without belligerence for the first time. I revised my surmise about his sight, as both dark brown eyes focused on my face. “Would you care to elaborate?” he asked.

  “Not at this time,” I murmured and dropped my gaze to my lap.

  “Fair enough.”

  Governess. Governess. I had to remember I was here as a governess. We had somehow strayed so far from the topic that I had not only spoken to Mr. Lunsford as if I were his equal, I had failed to proffer the letters of character, written by the vicar and other friends and neighbors in Kent. I dug in my re
ticule and, straightening my back into the proud and upright posture expected of a Chastain, held them out. “I very much appreciate Miss Brightwell recommending me, Mr. Lunsford, but perhaps you would care to read the characters I have brought with me?”

  Mr. Lunsford unfolded the four letters, one by one, reading each with solemn care. And then, to my astonishment, he put them aside without comment, leaned back in his chair, and said, “And now let us speak of Nicholas.” His lips thinned. His gaze flicked to the empty fireplace. “My nephew is difficult,” he admitted, still looking away. “Partly, he is spoiled by both mother and grandmother, who over the years have consistently interfered with those attempting to teach him how to go on. Why this should be when most ladies of the ton prefer to turn their children over to nurses and governesses and take no notice of them until they are sixteen or so, I have no idea.”

  He paused, shaking his head. “No, that is not quite true. They have been forced to it, I fear, for Nicholas’s high spirits tend to go beyond the acceptable. In short, he can be a terror.” With this last remark, he finally looked directly at me. “Nicholas drove Nurse Jenkins, who had served our family for many years, to distraction, causing her to question her own competency. I offered retirement and hired Nurse Robbins, a veritable martinet, who, I fear, has little empathy with a child of Nicholas’s stamp.” Mr. Lunsford paused, gazing past my shoulder at what appeared to be a host of unpleasant memories.

  “A little over year ago,” he said at last, “I employed a tutor, a gentle, perhaps overly educated young man whom Nicholas mocked at every opportunity. Nor was he the slightest use in keeping my nephew from disappearing for hours at a time. That is when I thought to try a governess again, for according to Nicholas’s mama, there had been no signs of trouble at Kempton Park. Though possibly,” Lunsford conceded, “Cressida is not the best judge of her son’s behavior.” A faint snort, hastily converted to a cough, and then, “But that too proved to be a disaster. The first governess, a woman of uncertain years who didn’t seem capable of saying boo to a goose, lasted but two weeks before coming to me in tears, demanding quite pitifully that she be sent back to London on the very next stage. The next one . . .”

  Mr. Lunsford shrugged, his gaze once again not meeting mine. “I thought perhaps a younger woman would be best, someone of an age with Nicholas’s mama. And indeed the girl seemed competent enough, though so shy she wouldn’t say boos to a goose,” he muttered so quietly I almost missed it. “She lasted a whole month, and I was quite optimistic, until we woke one morning to find her gone. Vanished, along with all her possessions.”

  “Most strange,” I murmured, feeling that some reaction was required. So strange, in fact, that in spite of Miss Brightwell’s warning, a shiver skittered up my spine.

  “Indeed.” Mr. Lunsford raised his head, and with what appeared to be considerable determination, once again looked me in the eye. “I admit to a scheme to use your son, Mrs. Tyrell. When Miss Brightwell wrote to me about your situation, I thought that if Nicholas could have the companionship of another boy, see a proper example of well-brought-up child . . .” Mr. Lunsford’s voice trailed off.

  “But how could you possibly know that Chas would be a good example?”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Tyrell, any example would be an improvement.” Lunsford’s dark eyes met mine, conveying a message that positively terrified me. Chas at the mercy of a demon child. Heaven forfend! “I am an honorable man, however, Mrs. Tyrell, and feel the necessity of making the situation plain. I want very much for you to stay—you are greatly needed here—but I won’t keep you if you feel you cannot cope.”

  There it was. Irresistible. I had never been one to turn away from a challenge. My father’s threat to disown me if I married Avery echoed through my head.“It is early days, Mr. Lunsford. Allow me to assess the situation before you send me scampering back to Kent.”

  Something sparked in those dark eyes. In the old days I might have thought it admiration, but here and now, from a man as badly damaged as this one . . who knew?

  “Dinner is at half six. Time enough to meet Nicholas in the morning. My sister-in-law and her mother will be quite enough for tonight.” A wave of his hand—I was dismissed. He did not stand as I hastily exited the room.

  Chapter Three

  Lady Kempton, mother of Nicholas, was rather more than I expected. I suppose I had pictured a widow, sunk in grief, who had allowed her son to run wild. But now I realized that Viscount Kempton’s passing must have been some time ago, for the woman I met as we gathered in an antechamber prior to dinner showed no signs of mourning. In fact, so much of her voluptuous figure rose above her gown of flounced burgundy silk that I wondered at her daring. Who, after all, did she intend to impress in this rural backwater? Certainly not Mr. Lunsford, for she was remarkably skilled at avoiding looking at him, even when responding to his introduction of her son’s governess. Nor, as her gown suggested, was she the least bit reserved or self-effacing. A bundle of nervous energy morelike, a woman who chafed at the confines of Lincolnshire, dressing for the grandeur of a London drawing room instead of the modest gentility of Lunsford Hall.

  Her mother, Lady Hadley, was more of the same, I judged. A lady of the ton who could not quite believe she had been relegated to the four-square walls of a house practically teetering on the edge of a vast uninhabited salt marsh. She was, however, more sparely built than her daughter, with streaks of gray striping dark brown hair the same shade as Lady Kempton’s but lacking the rich gloss of the younger woman’s glowing tresses. They were, however, an imposing pair. I found myself bristling beneath their contemptuous—possibly adversarial?—gaze. I was there to help, could they not see that?

  Dear Lord, when would I learn? I was no longer a lady of the manor, mistress of my own household. I was a supposedly meek and obedient governess, flattered to be invited to dine with family. And it was most definitely not my place to judge the ladies of the house. The mother and grandmother of Nicholas, Viscount Kempton.

  As we went in to dinner, I realized Mr. Lunsford had not been overly deprecating about his limp. It was not as grotesque as his face, but it made him slow and awkward. The grimly blank look on his face as a wave of his hand indicated I should follow the other women into the dining room, leaving him to trail behind, revealed much. How truly horrible to have been a handsome young man with an eye for the ladies—as Mrs. Allard had indicated—and now this. If I did nothing else while I was here . . .

  Idiot! There is nothing, absolutely nothing you can do to change what is happening here. Nicholas . . . perhaps. His uncle, no. You are a nobody. The lowly governess, on sufferance until you have proved yourself.

  A footman pulled out a chair, and I sat, dignified, eyes straight ahead, even as I firmly banished my inner self to some deep, dark loch in Scotland.

  Dinner was awkwardly silent. Neither Mr. Lunsford nor the ladies offered so much as one of the gracious topics of conversation expected at table. I dutifully followed suit, though I had to bite my tongue over myriad questions I wished to ask. Finally, as the remains of a lamb roast well seasoned with rosemary were being removed, I turned to Mr. Lunsford. “Do you simply maintain a home farm, Mr. Lunsford, or do you grow crops to market?”

  He blinked, as if totally unaccustomed to speech at the table, particularly anyone directly addressing him. For a moment I thought he was going to ignore the question and then, very solemnly and precisely, he said, “Our home farm grows a variety of vegetables for family consumption, Mrs. Tyrell. But the other farms on this property are extensive. We grow wheat, barley, potatoes, cabbages, onions, and beets. All for the commercial market.”

  “Goodness, Lunsford,” Lady Kempton protested, “you make it sound as if you were in trade.”

  “Nonsense,” her mother scoffed. “Growing crops is quite acceptable. It is not as if Lunsford is plowing the ground himself.”

  “That was not Lunsford,” Lady Kempton retorted, “stripped to the waist and nearly up to his neck in a ditch
just last week?”

  “It was blocked. The flood-gate needed to be re-designed.” Our host kept his head down, his lips barely moving as he spoke, as if to call the least amount of attention to himself. A sharp wave of sympathy flashed through me. For many reasons this was not a happy household. No wonder Nicholas was causing trouble. I had done everything I could to keep Chas from being enveloped in an atmosphere of mourning, but here a new set of problems seemed to be as plentiful as the crops being grown for market.

  A sweet of jam tarts and a round of Stilton were set before us, and conversation once again dwindled to nothing. But I wasn’t fooled. The ladies could hardly wait to get me alone and begin a catechism which I suspected would rapidly escalate into an attack. I had not yet met young Nicholas, but already I was beginning to understand what had sent my predecessors fleeing from Lunsford Hall.

  As I meekly followed Lady Kempton and her mother from the dining room into the drawing room, I reviewed my answers to their inevitable questions. Since I was well aware that the best lies involved sticking as close to the truth as possible, I hoped I would survive the twenty or thirty minutes before Mr. Lunsford joined—

  Oh dear. What if he did not join the ladies, as was the custom? What if he drank his port or brandy in the solitude of the dining room then retired to his bookroom, or wherever else he might wish to go, completely eschewing any nod toward civilized behavior. With tension sparking through the air from every direction. Mr. Lunsford might well prefer as little exposure as possible to the females in his household. And, poor man, who could blame him, when both women seemed adept at avoiding so much as a glance in his direction? Which meant I might be trapped with my pupil’s autocratic mother and grandmother until I manufactured an excuse to escape. Heaven help me!

  When we arrived in the drawing room, Lady Kempton waved an imperious hand at a throne-like chair near the fire. She and her mother seated themselves side by side on an amber silk brocade sofa, an imposing piece of furniture that looked as if it might have rested in the same place since the day the house was built. In unison, they looked me up and down, clearly finding me wanting.