“As you may have guessed,” I said carefully, “that is why I have come to visit. Mr. Lunsford has told me of the strange occurrences in the area, and the nasty rumors about Nicholas and himself. Unfortunately . . .” I paused, reluctant to lay the words out there, bare and malevolent, in this cozy cottage bathed in cheerful summer sun. But it had to be said. “Nicholas has admitted to putting a bloody rat in my bed. A bloody rat with its–ah–insides hanging out.”
I was instantly sorry for being so frank, as Nurse Jenkins cried out and clapped her hands over her face. She had raised Nicholas from a baby, had witnessed whatever had gone wrong, and must feel guilt as well as anguish over such behavior.
“I am so sorry,” I said on a rush, “but I need your help in understanding Nicholas, your advice on how I might be able to help him.”
“Oh, my dear,” she cried, tears welling in her eyes, “how can I help you when I was unable to do anything with him myself? All those years with the family and nary a serious problem, and then . . .” She buried her face in her apron and sobbed.
A good many minutes passed before we both settled to a second cup of tea and the elderly lady began, still a trifle chokingly, to tell her story. She had adored the Lunsford children—Ned, Jason, and their younger sister Isabelle. I was certain life at the Lunsford family seat near Nottingham could not have been as idyllic as she claimed, but I applauded her for her loyalty.
“After the children were grown, I went to connections of the family in Wiltshire,” she said, “but I came back as soon as Master Nicholas was born. And such a fine lad he was. Handsome, sturdy . . . and then his father was gone, and it was like the light of the world went with him. Lady Kempton was prostrate, no use to the poor boy at all. And then we were packed off to Lunsford Hall, willy nilly, as my poor Jason refused to leave his lair here at the end of nowhere.” She gulped a breath, shaking her head. “And who could blame him? He’d not come next or nigh us after being sent home from the war, so until the funeral we had no idea . . .”
Silence engulfed us as I tried to picture the shock, the horror when the grief-stricken family saw Jason Lunsford’s ravaged face for the first time.
“It began slowly, very slowly,” Nurse Jenkins continued. “Nicholas was but six years old when his father died. That he went from a cheerful, rumbustious boy to quiet and sullen was only to be expected. But when the tutor came—less than a twelve-month ago, as I recall—it was as if it sparked something evil inside him. Nicholas turned defiant, getting up to nasty tricks, so much so, he drove the poor man away.”
Good Lord. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t heard the story before, but suddenly the tale took on new meaning. Why had I not thought . . .? No. I was allowing personal experience to color my thinking. “And after that?” I prompted.
“Master Jason—Mr. Lunsford—thought to try a governess, and I’m certain you’ve heard how that turned out.”
“Yes, indeed,” I murmured. “Evidently Nicholas developed a taste for pranks.”
“And then the whispers began. More than half a year ago, I think it was. Nasty tales, blaming the strange lights, the fires, the poor dead creatures on my dear boys, my poor maimed Jason and a child barely turned nine. Talk of demons and curses. Enough to fair curdle the blood, Mrs. Tyrell, and me having no power to end such talk.”
“Which you could not do, in all fairness,” I said softly, “as you knew Nicholas was indeed capable of some of the offenses.”
“Aye,” she breathed, once again hanging her head.
“And Lunsford capable of the remainder.”
“No!” she cried, suddenly animated, her indignant gaze meeting mine. “Never!”
“Are you so sure? War can do terrible things to men’s minds.”
“I am certain!”
“But once you would have said that about Nicholas.” I immediately offered abject apologies for going too far. I’d been thoughtless. While speculating out loud, I had ruined an elderly woman’s day.
During a conversation of another fifteen or twenty minutes, I struggled to make amends. And all the time at the back of my mind was a worm of suspicion that had begun to grow when Nurse Jenkins mentioned the tutor. But no . . . it was nonsense to suspect that Nicholas and Chas had suffered similar incidents . . .
I made a true effort to ensure that the devoted nurse was in a more cheerful frame of mind before I took my leave, even going so far as to promise to bring Nicholas and Chas to visit her. (Through the wildfire of village gossip, she was, of course, already well aware of the shocking fact that the new governess was the mother of an eight-year-old boy.)
None of which kept me from feeling guilty for disturbing her peace. Turning my back on the village, I set out on the oddly right-angled path that led back to Lunsford Hall.
I admit to being curious about the village, but I had promised Chas we would explore it together, and besides, my motherly instincts were urging me not to be away from the house for too long. I trusted Amos, but in my experience males had a decidedly different view of suitable activities for young boys than females. I had accepted the tree-climbing incident. Nonetheless . . . I quickened my pace back toward the Hall.
There were three foot-bridges along the path, and I paused on the slight rise of the final one to enjoy the view. In the mid-distance, the solid rosy-red block of Lunsford Hall rose against the infinite expanse of the salt marsh, the well-scythed grounds cut off from the surrounding fields by the broad canal on the left, the deep cross-ditch to my right, and a ditch paralleling the canal but at least a hundred yards farther to my right. A smile twitched at my lips. Though Lunsford Hall was stolid, unimaginative, and about as far from walled and crenellated as one could get, it was certainly as well-moated as a Medieval castle.
As I crossed the last bridge, movement caught my eye. A rider far to my right, beyond the immediate grounds of Lunsford Hall park. He appeared to be trotting along the embankment above one of the cross-ditches. It could have been anyone, I suppose, but for some reason I was certain it was Mr. Lunsford. My mind fell to manufacturing vague excuses to linger: I was enjoying the view, the breeze on my face, the smell of salt in the air . . . but the truth was, I did not care to admit the real reason I continued to stand there watching the rider come closer and closer.
Horse and rider suddenly broke into a gallop and I watched, transfixed, as they sailed into the air, flying like some giant bird over the far ditch. A black whirlwind swallowed me up, swirled me around, and cast me down hard on the bridge’s solid planks, where dark shadows danced around me, nipping at my clothes, threatening to engulf me. I clung to one of the upright posts and willed myself to hang on, even as I prayed the rider had passed on by, oblivious to my weakness.
Too late. Pounding hoofs, an anxious voice, hands gripping my shoulders. “Mrs. Tyrell, what has happened? Are you ill?”
Mortified. Completely, totally, abjectly mortified. Head down, I gasped the same excuse I had given the boys. “My leg was seized with a cramp. I am so embarrassed, Mr. Lunsford. Please continue your ride. I shall be right as rain in a moment.”
“Nonsense. You fainted, or as close to it as makes no difference. And I wish to know why. You do not appear to be a woman too weak to walk a mile without collapsing.”
“Mr. Lunsford,” I declared, getting some of the tart back into my voice. “I assure you I am quite all right.” Except for being ready to sink that you have seen me like this. If you would just go away! Acknowledging reality, I added, “If you would be so kind as to help me up . . .”
And suddenly I was on my feet, one hand clutching the railing, the other . . . Oh, dear God, I was hanging on to Mr. Lunsford’s jacket as if my life depended on it. I looked up, seeing not his deformity but only the concern in his eyes, and my legs nearly buckled once again. I swayed, and suddenly a pair of strong arms held me tight, my face hard against his chest. I should have been horrified. Instead, like the veriest ninny, I clung for several long moments, savoring the safety, the feeling of having c
ome home after a long journey through the wilderness.
And then the shocking impropriety of standing on a bridge in full view of anyone for at least a half mile in every direction propelled me away from him, where I stood, grasping the bridge rail and gaping at my employer. “I am so sorry,” I burbled. “Truly, I am quite all right.”
“No, you’re not,” Lunsford growled at me. “Come, I’ll mount you on Diablo. You’re not fit to walk back to the house.”
“No!” I think I must have screamed it, for his eyes widened in shock.
“A-ah,” he breathed. “Nicholas told me you were afraid of horses, but I assumed he exaggerated. Very well, Mrs. Tyrell,” he added in uncompromising tones, “we will remain right here until you explain yourself.”
I turned away, gripping the rail with both hands while I stared down at the sluggish water in the ditch below. He was right, of course. A fear such as mine was impossible to hide. “I used to enjoy riding,” I said at last. “I did not join my husband in the hunt, but riding was very much part of my life.” I paused, the horrid scene as clear in my mind as if it had happened only yesterday. “And then one day they brought him home to me, broken and dying. An inexplicable accident, they told me. At a fence he had taken a fifty times before. I know it is weak and cowardly—in the months to follow, sympathetic as they were, my neighbors did not hesitate to tell me so—but I have not gone near a horse since, and the sight of you sailing over the ditch . . .
“I am most horribly ashamed of myself,” I continued. “You will not think me fit to instruct a boy of Nicholas’s age and disposition, but there’s the truth of it, for all it sheds such a bad light on my courage.”
Silence. Was he about to tell me to pack my bags?
“It is fortunate I am not a lecherous gentleman,” Lunsford returned softly, “or I would take advantage of the opportunity to put my arms around a faltering female while I accompanied her back to the house.”
Speechless, I stared at him. He dared turn my anguished recounting of the worst moment of my life into a joke? I clapped my hand over my mouth before I told him exactly what I thought of him. Only later did I realize I had just caught a glimpse of the dashing, flirtatious young gentleman he once was. The man who was treating me as he would one of his friends. Distracting me with humor rather than swamping me in concern.
And then, of course, I remembered he had fought in the war, had seen sights so much worse than my personal tragedy. I acknowledged the burden he carried, the anguish he must feel each day as he looked in the mirror, the loneliness he must experience shut away from the world for fear people would think him a monster.
People did think him a monster.
“Diablo!” At Lunsford’s commanding tone, his horse raised his head from the grass he had been cropping on the embankment, gave a whuffle, and obediently stepped forward onto the bridge. I forced back revulsion by offering a quip. “Diablo, Mr. Lunsford? You ride a black stallion named for the Devil?”
A rueful glance, the lift of a dark brow. “A fine name on the plains of Spain,” he offered. “Perhaps not the best when a monster roams the plains of Lincolnshire.”
I shook my head and allowed him to take my arm. “Only a short ways to go,” he said in encouraging tones. “We’ll speak of horses another day when you are feeling more the thing.”
I almost balked. No, we would not speak of horses, blast the man! Instead, I meekly allowed him to guide me back to the house, where, against my vehement protests, he summoned Mrs. Allard and had her walk with me to my room. My seething brain scarcely heard her offer of a variety of tisanes or her instructions to tuck myself up in bed, where dinner would be brought to me on a tray. For it had finally occurred to me that my agitation was not solely due to horrid memories or scalding embarrassment. When was the last time a man had touched me, let alone held me so firmly in his arms? Not since Avery . . .
I should have felt nothing except gratitude for Mr. Lunsford’s support. Yet I had experienced far more. An odd disturbance, a breathlessness that had nothing to do with my near-faint or walking too far. An awareness of Jason Lunsford as a man.
Ridiculous! I was twenty-seven years old, mother of a child of eight. I could not possibly be so foolish as to see a self-professed monster in a romantic light.
I sat for a long time in my chair by the window, wracked by confusion, guilt, doubts, and sheer horror at my wayward emotions. There was nothing to be done, I decided, but put the incident from my mind. I blamed the events that had sent us fleeing from Kent for causing so much tumult in our lives that I had become a weak, sniveling coward instead of the woman of strength I once had been. Safety, stability, that’s all I asked. Truly.
At Lunsford Hall . . .? mocked my inner voice.
Alas, my analysis of the turmoil in my mind did little to stiffen my spine. Accepting Mrs. Allard’s advice, I avoided another encounter with Mr. Jason Lunsford by dining in my room that night, even going so far as to eschew the breakfast table, not leaving my bedchamber the next morning until time to make the climb up to the nursery.
Chapter Ten
All was peaceful in the schoolroom that morning. I even thought I caught a flicker of pleasure cross Nicholas’s face when I mentioned I had met Nurse Jenkins and promised to take both boys to visit her. And yet as I watched the two heads bent over their work—one so dark, the other so fair—I could not help but recall the rat, and a frisson of warning skittered through me. Nicholas, I suspected, was only a small part of the problem. We were not confronting some supernatural force from the depths of Hell but the evil conjuring of a sick mind. A mind that might have taken Nicholas’s quirks and Jason’s disfigurement and twisted them into a nightmare of his own making.
But who would do such a thing? And why? It made no sense. Lincolnshire was the quiet, peaceful breadbasket of England, filled with sensible farmers and grizzled fishermen who should scoff at such nonsense as ghosties, ghoulies, witches, and demons. And yet . . .
I snapped back to the reality of the classroom as Chas asked me a question about double-number division. Later, during our pause for enough food to keep young boys from fading away before luncheon, Chas asked, eyes shining, “May we go to the stables this afternoon, Mama? The cat has a new litter of kittens. Amos took us yesterday, and there are eight of them!”
I had already made it clear that Amos would not be needed today, for I had depended on him two afternoons in a row and felt I was failing to earn my keep if I did not oversee the boys’ outdoor activities myself today.
“Pray do not look so, Mama,” Chas exclaimed.
“Really, Mrs. Tyrell,” Nicholas drawled, “the horses do not bite.”
“It’s just old Bess’s stall, Mama. And you do not have to go inside. You can just watch.”
“I wouldn’t think of keeping you from the kittens,” I said, rather too loftily. “I do, however, want us to identify some of the birds in the area, but I have no objection to making the stables our first stop.”
Chas responded with a lusty cry of triumph, though Nicholas offered but a tiny smile I was quite certain held more than a little mockery. The foolish governess—afraid of horses.
Ha! I said to myself later that day as the boys leaped and danced their way to the stables ahead of me. You tell yourself you’re not given to hysteria, but what else is this irrational fear of horses when you rode them daily from the moment you were lifted onto your first pony? Yes, indeed, you weak-kneed featherbrain, people sometimes die when tossed from a horse, but most do not. Most get back in the saddle and keep on going. Yet you have let grief turn you into a pudding-heart! An unfit human. Worse, an unfit mother. You have disgraced yourself in front of your son, in front of your pupil. And in front of your employer. Two years, Miranda Chastain Tyrell. Two years! You took your first step to being strong again when you ran away from Kent. It’s time to do more. Time to live again.
Well . . . live perhaps, but not ride, I qualified, my lips curling in disgust at my continuing cowardice. But
surely I could enter a stall to look at newborn kittens.
I had not expected to see Mr. Lunsford, but as misfortune would have it, there he was at the far end of the stables, examining some piece of equipment I could not quite make out. He immediately ceased whatever he was doing and came limping toward us, while I could only stand there like a ninny, wishing there were a handy wizard I could call upon to make me disappear in a puff of smoke.
“We’re here to see the kittens,” Chas cried. “They haven’t even got their eyes open yet.”
“More felines,” Mr. Lunsford said in mock horror. “I’m quite sure every mouse in the neighborhood is quivering in its boots.”
Chas laughed, even Nicholas grinned. “Come, sir,” Chas said. “They’re in Bess’s stall. Mama is too afraid to go in, but I’m sure you will want to see them.”
My feet were poised on the verge of a run straight back to the house, but I sternly reminded myself I was twenty-seven, not seven. I stuck my chin in the air and sailed past all three males, setting aside Chas’s hand, which was on the latch, and entered the stall. Bess whickered at me. I did not cringe. There is no danger here. Though my heart raced, I knew it to be a fact. The old mare was not about to rise up and stomp me to death, nor were the mama cat and kittens a menace. My hands might tremble, my legs might threaten to collapse, but I would do this and be the better for it.
I made my way to the far corner of the stall and, sure enough, there was a brindled cat with eight tiny kittens fighting for position on her teats. The miracle of birth. The continuation of life. I fought back tears as my world swayed perilously before snapping back into place. Avery was gone, Chas and I lived. A horse had not killed him. An accident—Fate, if you will—had taken him from me. I reached out, speaking soft words to the mother cat, and petted her. She offered a loud purr in return. See what fine babes I have.
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