by Regina Scott
Her smile resembled the cat’s. “It is not your satisfaction that concerns me, Your Grace, but Jane’s. I expect a full report on my return. Good day.”
She sailed for the door, cat peering around her elbow at him. The footman hurried to open the door and ran down the stairs to help her into the coach as well. She might have been the queen of England for the deference shown her.
Curious woman. What did his mother know about the redoubtable Miss Thorn that had made her reach out to a new agency? Or had the agency that had provided the previous governesses run out of suitable staff, and patience?
He retreated to the library and stayed there for the next while, waiting. The crowded space ever seemed cozy to him. The library had been a source of escape when he was a lad. Whenever his father was in London, he’d crawl into a corner and read—history, philosophy, even adventure novels, his father’s only weakness. Now he used the room to oversee his holdings, a place to plan, to concentrate.
Not today. There would be an interruption any moment; he was sure of it.
But no stiff-backed duchess came sweeping down the stairs demanding a footman to throw the interloper out, and no dark-haired governess with speaking eyes went fleeing out the door in horror. Perhaps Miss Thorn was right, and Mrs. Kimball would last. Unfortunately, the previous three governesses had survived a week before giving up.
He rose and headed to the windows, which looked out onto the island. Beyond the buff-colored walls of the castle, fifty acres of Dryden land stretched out to the grey waters of the Thames. Across the bridge, several more hundred acres lay waiting for the spring planting. More than two hundred people depended on that land for income, sustenance. For most of his life, they had been threatened with spring floods, some years worse than others. Many of the worst years had been since he’d taken over the title from his father. If the new solution he’d fixed upon didn’t work properly, he very much feared this year would see tragedy.
He knew what some of his tenants whispered. The House of Wey was cursed. Floods every spring, famines in the winter, fires ravaging the island last summer, his wife dying too young.
And no heir.
He glanced at the sky, but he couldn’t doubt a merciful God. He had three bright, beautiful daughters. He was solvent; his tenants were getting by. He should not feel as if something was lacking.
Especially as he feared the lack was within himself. Everything had seemed to run so much more smoothly when his father had been alive. When Father spoke, people jumped to do his bidding. His father’s fierce intellect and commanding presence had assured as much. He had never understood Alaric’s more quiet nature. And now Alaric had to fight against that nature every day so that his staff, his tenants, and England’s finest only saw the next formidable Duke of Wey.
And none of them would have guessed the formidable Duke of Wey held his breath much of the afternoon. He could only be relieved when his mother joined him in the dining room, looking rather pleased with herself.
“Tolerable,” she pronounced, and he knew she wasn’t talking about the veal set on the long table. “This one has promise.”
He wasn’t sure whether that meant Mrs. Kimball would make a good governess or merely that his mother felt she could control the woman. He began to get a glimmer of an answer when Mrs. Kimball came to give him her first report that evening.
He had retired to the library to review the latest bill the prime minister had sent him. Parliament had started sessions earlier this month, but Alaric had remained home to make sure everything was ready for the spring rains. He was frowning over the almost accusatory language of the bill, which sought to remedy the cost of corn for the poor, when Parsons announced her, nose up and decidedly out of joint. The butler had served in London too long to ever be completely happy with his position in the country, no matter that he served a duke in a castle. He had expectations, requirements. Mrs. Kimball’s access to the duke threatened the exalted position he strived to maintain.
If the new governess met Alaric’s mother’s and daughters’ needs, Parsons would have to adjust.
Mrs. Kimball approached the desk and stopped a few feet from it, head high and gaze direct, as if she were a soldier reporting to her commanding officer. He refused to salute. She’d taken off the bonnet to reveal hair the color and thickness of melted chocolate, pressed close to her round face and wound in a bun behind her. She looked a little pale, but perhaps it was the lamplight barely reaching beyond the first set of shelves.
“Yes?” he encouraged her.
“I have had an opportunity to interact with your daughters this afternoon,” she reported, gaze past him out to the night beyond the windows. “I expect their current curriculum to be acceptable except for four additions.” She paused as if expecting an argument.
“Oh?” he asked.
“Yes.” She took a step forward as if determined to make her case. He’d thought her eyes warm and sweet. Now they snapped fire.
“Exercise,” she said. “It seems they never leave the house. A daily constitutional is required for good health.”
He hadn’t realized his daughters were under such constraints. Small wonder Calantha in particular always looked so wan in his presence. “I concur.”
She drew a breath as if she’d fought her way through the first battle. “And I would like them to learn to ride, provided we can find a unicorn.”
He shook his head, sure he’d heard her incorrectly. “A what?”
“A unicorn. Lady Abelona insists she will ride nothing less.”
He leaned back in the chair. “Then perhaps Lady Abelona is too young to ride.”
She frowned. “When did your father put you in the saddle?”
“When I was five, but that’s hardly the same thing.”
“I see no difference. Both ladies and gentlemen are expected to ride well.”
That he could not argue. “Very well. Assuming you can find her a unicorn, you have my permission to teach her to ride. I believe Larissa and Calantha have had rudimentary lessons in the past. Speak to my master of horse, Mr. Quayle, about suitable mounts. What else?”
“Art,” she said. “They have no outlet for creativity. I thought we’d start with watercolors and move on to oils.”
A bit ambitious, but he could see the value. “I approve.”
She took another step closer, until her black skirts brushed the teak of the desk.
“Science and mathematics,” she said, voice ringing with conviction. “Her Grace doesn’t seem to see the value, but I assure you a lady who can tell the difference between nightshade and blueberries and can balance her household accounts is much more likely to find success in life.”
What an innovative thinker. He had never heard the case made so clearly. A voice inside insisted that Evangeline would have disapproved. Surely the daughters of a duke had no need to determine whether a dark-colored berry was nightshade or blueberry. But he closed off the thought. His position required that he evaluate the recommendations of others. Mrs. Kimball had had sound reasons for each suggestion.
Aside from the unicorn, of course.
“Your plan seems wise,” he said. “I will inform my mother that I approve.”
She cracked a grin. “Better you than me.”
Minx. He felt his own smile forming. “I’m glad you understand the workings of our household, Mrs. Kimball.”
“I’m a cavalry officer’s widow, Your Grace. I understand the value of scouting ahead, and currying favor with the general. I’ll let you know tomorrow night how the search for the unicorn goes.” With a nod to Parsons, she saw herself out.
For the first time in a long time, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow night.
Chapter Three
The duke wasn’t a bad sort. Jane smiled to herself as she walked back to her quarters near the schoolroom. Perhaps it was that cool green look, or the way he sat so still, like a catamount willing the deer closer. But she’d thought he might argue on the proper way
to educate girls.
The duchess certainly had firm ideas, and not just on education.
“We cannot have boisterous behavior in the corridors,” she had told Jane as she had led her and the girls to the schoolroom earlier that afternoon. “You will see that my granddaughters are cared for in their proper place.”
The proper place had been up a narrow, dimly lit set of stairs at the end of the corridor. Jane had been a little afraid the girls had been confined to cells in the attics, but the top floor opened into a long, wide, room with sunny yellow walls and windows looking out over the courtyard and onto the island. Bookcases, miniature versions of the ones in His Grace’s library, lined one wall, while the center of the room held a worktable surrounded by spindle-backed chairs. Crouched in one corner was a wooden rocking horse, color fading.
Smaller rooms opening along one wall held bedchambers for her and each of the girls. She didn’t mind in the least that hers was smallest. The bed with its carved headboard and matching washstand was finer than what she’d made do with many times on campaign, and the walnut wardrobe along one wall would hold her meager belongings nicely.
“And these are your staff,” the duchess had said with a regal wave at the three people who stood near the windows. She made no effort to introduce them, as if the two older women and younger man in the olive livery of the house were nothing more than additional pieces of furniture.
Jane broke away from the duchess to approach them. “Jane Kimball. And you are?”
The shorter of the two women, her light-brown hair neatly drawn back below a lace-edged cap, curtsied. “Betsy, ma’am. I’ve been nursery maid since Lady Larissa was born. Maud here came along when Lady Abelona arrived.”
The larger of the two, in height and figure, Maud nodded her greying head. “And glad I was to join the household.”
“That’s Simmons,” Betsy said with a look to the strapping footman. “He does for the nursery.”
Simmons nodded, clean-shaven chin jutting out. He had hair the color of ripened wheat and eyes a steely grey. “Mrs. Kimball. I know the routine. You needn’t worry about me.”
Jane smiled. “Routines can change.”
Larissa, who with her sisters had been avidly watching the exchange, shook her head.
The duchess drew herself up. “You will find, Mrs. Kimball, that we are traditionalists here at the castle. I have expectations, you know, for you and my granddaughters. See that you live up to them.”
Jane knew what was expected of a gentlewoman—the ability to smile and nod while life tumbled around her, a good seat on a horse, accomplishments in piano, watercolor, and embroidery. Jimmy’s stepmother would have argued that Jane had had all that, and it had availed her nothing. She’d been a disobedient daughter, an impossible daughter-in-law.
Now she knew what was truly needed in a lady—pluck and grit and determination. A willingness to see to the needs of others, no matter their ancestry or position. And the ability to protect herself. She would have loved to add drills with knife and pistol to the curriculum, but she fervently hoped the three little ladies in her care would never need those skills. After all, life at Wey Castle seemed rather predictable.
The scream as she started up the stairs now belied that thought.
It rent the air, terror lending it strength. Jane picked up her skirts and ran, barreling into the schoolroom and narrowing in on Calantha’s bedchamber.
The little girl had squeezed herself between the double-doored wardrobe and pink, silk-draped wall. Hunched down and arms covering her head, she trembled violently. Jane squatted beside her, drew her close.
“What happened?”
Calantha shook her head, then buried it in Jane’s shoulder while one hand pointed toward the massive box bed with pink and white chintz hangings that graced the center of the room.
“Did something frighten you?” Jane asked. “A nightmare?”
The little head on her shoulder shook a decided no.
Where were the others? The child had screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Larissa and Abelona should be crying out at the sound. One of the two nursery maids, Betsy or Maud, should have poked in a head. They shared a room just down the corridor, they had told Jane. And where was Simmons, the nursery footman? Shouldn’t he be on duty?
With a shake of her head, Jane scooped Calantha up and rose, a bit unsteadily. The eight-year-old might look like a piece of eiderdown, but she weighed considerably more.
“Well, there’s nothing to fear, now,” Jane assured her. “I won’t let it harm you.”
The girl gave a shaky sigh and cuddled closer.
A tall shadow appeared in the doorway. “Spider again?” Simmons asked. Earlier he’d been wearing the proper olive coat and breeches. Now his shirt was untucked, his feet in stockings, as if he’d thrown on his clothes or hadn’t bothered to take them off.
Calantha shuddered at his voice.
“Ah,” Jane said. “So that’s it. Nasty things, spiders. I don’t like them much myself.”
Calantha pulled back to show a face puckered by fear. “Miss Carruthers said they’d bite me in my sleep if I didn’t do my sums right.”
Anger bubbled up inside her. “Miss Carruthers is mistaken. Spiders are more likely to go after governesses who treat little girls badly.”
Calantha sighed again as she lowered her head. “Oh, good. That means you’re safe too.”
Jane nodded to the footman. “Check the bed, Simmons.”
He straightened. “There’s no spider. She’s just scared.” He nodded to Calantha. “Go back to bed, now, like a good girl.”
Calantha sucked in a breath.
Jane held out the girl. “Very well, you hold her, and I’ll check the bed. I probably know more about catching spiders anyway.”
Calantha suffered herself to be transferred to Simmons’s much stronger arms. “You do?” the little girl asked.
“Certainly I do,” Jane said, shoving up her sleeves. “I’ve captured or killed spiders in Egypt, Flanders, and Portugal.”
The footman scowled in obvious disbelief as Jane advanced on the flowing bed hangings. “Oy there! This is Lady Calantha’s room, and you’ve no business skulking about.” She grabbed the right bed hanging and shook the pink and white fabric. “Out! Out, I say.” Not so much as dust drifted down. She turned to Calantha with a frown. “No one there. Ah! I have it! The other one!”
She pirouetted in a circle and grabbed the other hanging, shaking it mercilessly. Simmons stared at her as if she’d gone mad, but Calantha giggled.
Now, that was better. Jane threw up her hands. “Not there either. How am I to catch a spider if it won’t be found?”
Calantha wiggled, and Simmons set her on her feet. “It’s gone,” she told Jane with conviction. “You scared it away.”
Jane cocked her head. “You sure? There are still two more hangings to check.” She held out her hand. “Let’s look together.”
Calantha accepted her hand, little fingers cool in hers. Together, they shook and shouted, but nothing fell out of the material or scurried away from sight.
“What do you think?” Jane asked as Calantha crawled back onto the bed.
“I can sleep now,” she promised, settling against the pillow and reminding Jane once more of a doll. “Thank you, Mrs. Kimball.”
“It was my pleasure,” Jane said. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Calantha sat bolt upright. “There are bugs in the bed too?”
A quarter hour later, Jane followed Simmons out of door and shut it behind her.
“Does this happen often?” she asked.
The fellow shrugged, muscles rippling. “Only once or twice a week. You’ll get used to it.”
Jane caught his arm as he turned to go. “No, I won’t, and you mustn’t either. What if it had been something serious?”
He laughed. “It’s never something serious.”
“It might be,” Jane insisted. “If she screams, you move
. I expect to see you there before the first shriek fades.”
His face turned mulish. “Her Grace says we shouldn’t encourage her. Let her cry it out alone. Why do you think none of the others came? She needs to learn to deal with her fears on her own. That’s how my da raised me. No one came running when I was scared.”
Jane put her hands on her hips. “The way to stop a child from being afraid isn’t to make her more afraid. You leave the duchess to me. Those little girls are your future. Who do you think will hire butlers when they grow up?”
His eyes widened.
Jane reached up and patted his shoulder. “Good man. Now, get some sleep before the next scream sounds.”
With a nod, he hurried off.
Jane made it to her quarters at last. Thank goodness Mr. Parsons had ordered her trunk brought up. She could only hope her saddle was safely in the stables below the castle. Right now, all she wanted to do was slip into bed and think. The duke had accepted her recommendations on the curriculum, but she still had to contend with the duchess and deal with Calantha’s fears. She also had to find a unicorn.
A unicorn.
She smiled as she knelt beside the trunk, working the latch. She hadn’t bothered to lock the thing when they had left London. No one at a great house was likely to paw through a governess’s things. Now all she could picture was the duke’s face when she’d mentioned Abelona’s preferred mount. For a moment, he’d looked almost approachable. It was as if she’d found a friend.
Or perhaps not. Gooseflesh pimpled her arms as she saw her clothes tumbled together. Someone had searched her trunk. Looking for what? She had only one thing she truly valued.
Panic pushed up inside her. Out went nightgown, her spare chemise, the one dress that wasn’t black. Where was it? Please, Lord, don’t let them have stolen it.
The bit of gold braid lay shining on the bottom of the trunk. Jane snatched it up, hugged it close. Jimmy had been so proud the day the general had awarded it. She could still see his smile, the way the sunlight had caught the gold, as if reflecting the blond of his hair. Would he forgive her, when they met in heaven one day, for tearing it off his uniform before they buried him?