The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “I am certain he is.” Delia settled her black bonnet atop her head and secured the dark satin ribbons beneath her chin. “You girls stay here. I’ll return shortly.”

  One of the carriage footmen opened the door, lowered the steps, and assisted Delia down. A sharp breeze whipped around the corner, chilly and damp, rustling the leaves of the silver elms at the house’s edge and disturbing the boxwood underneath the leaded windows. She stilled the bonnet ribbons as they fluttered in the gusts, instructed the driver to wait for her instruction, and turned.

  She lifted her eyes to the grand entrance, shadowed and dark in the day’s fading light. A low Tudor-arched stone doorway, blackened by years of weather and exposure to the elements, framed and protected a closed wooden door. Above it, paned windows stretched upward two more stories, topped by ornately carved stonework and a slate roof.

  In a home this size someone should be here to greet them—a butler, footman, anyone.

  But she saw no signs of life.

  Nerves churned within her as she considered her next action, and she chewed her lower lip. Perhaps she should wait for Mr. Steerhead and Mr. Simon. They would know what to do. But there was no telling how long the other carriage would be, and judging by the fortitude of the wind tugging at her skirt, the weather was intensifying. The last thing she needed was for the girls to fall ill from being caught in the rain.

  She spied a door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. As she approached it, a muffled voice sounded from her left, followed by a burst of masculine laughter.

  Delia whirled around. Two men, clad in linen trousers, country felt hats, and mud-splattered boots, rounded the west corner of the house. The taller one, with blond hair and a dark coat, was talking, and the other man, with no coat, a light-green waistcoat, black hair, and a shovel slung over his shoulder, was laughing. Neither noticed her.

  Behind her, one of the horses whinnied and stomped its hoof against the cobbled drive. The man with black hair paused, looked at the drive, and motioned for the other man to stop.

  Then he looked at her.

  A damp breeze swept in afresh, rustling the shadowed ivy climbing the house’s facade.

  They stared at each other for several seconds.

  Delia sniffed. At this rate they’d never be shown inside.

  She approached the men and straightened her posture to her tallest height. “I’m looking for Mr. Jac Twethewey,” she blurted. “Is he at home, please?”

  The men exchanged glances. The taller man—the one with hair the color of sand and in need of a shave—nodded, amusement dancing in his hazel eyes. “He is.”

  Growing frustrated at the cavalier attitude, she pursed her lips. “Would you be so kind as to notify him that his nieces have arrived?”

  The other man jerked. His face tightened. “Nieces?”

  Delia huffed at the impertinence. Servants at Easten Park never would have been permitted to speak to guests in such a daft manner. She lifted her chin in an air of authority and straightened her shoulders. “I’d prefer to speak directly with Mr. Twethewey on this matter, if you please.”

  The man with dark hair handed his shovel to the other man and stepped toward her. “You are speaking with Jac Twethewey. How may I be of service?”

  Chapter 6

  Confusion and frustration mounting, Jac looked back to the carriage. This time he noticed three small, very white faces peering at him from the window.

  He sobered at the sight. Heat gathered beneath his collar, and a knot cinched in his chest.

  Surely this woman was mistaken. She had to be.

  Those children in the carriage were not his nieces. ’Twould be impossible.

  He turned his attention back to the petite lady in front of him. Her gray eyes, which moments before had met his with such directness, were now downcast and her cheeks flushed crimson.

  He could not fault her for mistaking him for a field hand. He’d spent the afternoon in the north orchard overseeing and assisting the men as they dug new irrigation ditches down to the pond, and his clothes, face, and hands bore the dusty evidence.

  But whatever the reason for her abrupt greeting, he cared not.

  She’d spoken of his nieces.

  His only nieces were Randall’s children, and anything regarding Randall was not a topic to take lightly.

  “My nieces reside in Yorkshire,” he divulged, almost defensively. “There’s no reason they’d be here.”

  The woman’s delicate brows drew together. “Did you not receive Mr. Steerhead’s letter?”

  The familiar name ignited unpleasant memories. “Edwin Steerhead?”

  “Y-yes. Mr. Edwin Steerhead. Mr. Twethewey’s solicitor wrote to you, informing you of . . .” Her words faded to uncomfortable silence.

  “Miss, I received no letter.”

  As the situation’s reality trickled through his consciousness, the blood pounded in his ears, and he clutched at the bits of information, trying to make sense of them. Something was wrong—inconceivably wrong. There was no way his brother would send his children to Penwythe Hall. Unless . . .

  The need for information descended upon him fervently. “Why are they here?”

  The young woman again met his gaze directly. “Randall Twethewey is dead.”

  Jac’s blood ran cold.

  His breath lodged in his lungs.

  The woman continued, her voice sounding very far away. “He named you guardian of his children. I—um, we—thought you knew.”

  “There m-must be some m-mistake,” Jac stammered as speech returned. “A mistake.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no mistake.” She knitted her gloved fingers together before her. “He was buried four days ago.”

  Stunned, he stared at her hands as her long fingers gripped, released, and gripped each other again before he looked at her face. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Mrs. Cordelia Greythorne. I am your nieces’ governess.”

  The steady drizzle had given way to heavier, cooler raindrops, and the wind whipped about, whistling through the branches, the briskness of which snapped him from his trance.

  “Your nephews are with Mr. Steerhead. Their carriage broke a wheel a few miles back, but they should follow shortly. Mr. Steerhead will be able to give you more information than I. I’m . . .” Her shoulders fell. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  He blinked as the rain poured down on him. It fell in sheets now, and Jac had almost forgotten that Andrews was with them until his steward nudged his arm and murmured, “Perhaps we should go inside. It’s raining and the children . . .”

  Jac looked back to the carriage.

  Yes, the children.

  The small faces were still there peering through the rain-blurred windows. Their eerily pale expressions were made even more so by the evening’s gray light.

  He swallowed.

  Hard.

  Jac was first to arrive at the carriage door. He opened it, and one by one, he took a little hand and helped each girl to the drive. Only the littlest one paused to regard him with wide, curious eyes before she scurried toward their governess. Within moments they disappeared through the arched doorway.

  Jac and Andrews followed them inside, where the housekeeper had no doubt heard the commotion and met them in the entrance hall. Her light eyes were popped wide, and the tight silver curls framing her face shook excitedly. “What’s this?”

  “We have guests, Mrs. Bishop.” Jac kept his voice low. Controlled. He swiped the rainwater from his arms and removed his soaked hat, quickly sorting out in his mind what needed to be done. “These are my nieces and their governess. My nephews will be following. Please see that the fires are lit and the guest rooms are prepared. Also, have tea sent to the drawing room.”

  “The guest rooms?” She gaped at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “But those haven’t been opened in nigh a year. They will require a great deal of work.”

  Several others of the staff had gathered beyond the
corridor’s edge and peered at them. “We’ll make do. See that the bedding is changed.”

  Objections wrote themselves on Mrs. Bishop’s face as surely as if they had been spoken, but her thin lips pressed to a tight line. She bobbed her head in compliance and disappeared through the corridor.

  He turned back, steeling himself for the sight that met him.

  Three young girls clad in damp ebony garb regarded him soberly, silently, their wide eyes assessing his every move. They stood in a row next to their governess, and the youngest, who had only been an infant when he and Randall fell out, clung to her governess’s hand, her tiny knuckles white.

  He’d heard that their mother died a couple of years back, and now they were here. Motherless. Fatherless. And apparently under his guardianship.

  The gnawing ache within his chest intensified.

  The governess, as if sensing his discomfort, stepped forward. “Mr. Twethewey, may I present your nieces: Julia, Hannah, and Sophia.”

  He swallowed hard.

  Julia, Hannah, and Sophia.

  His past had returned to haunt him, for each one, in her own way, was a smaller, younger, feminine version of his brother.

  Julia, with the startling blue eyes framed in black lashes. He remembered her, how she had laughed and played on Easten Park’s front lawn on his last and only visit to the estate. Now she appeared a young woman.

  Hannah, with a slight Twethewey cleft in her chin and freckles splattered on the bridge of her nose.

  Sophia, with coal-black hair hanging loose and wild, and her chin tilted upward, tiny but confident.

  He managed to bow. “Ladies, welcome to Penwythe Hall.”

  The girls all dropped a slow, practiced curtsy but remained silent.

  “Let’s go through to the drawing room.” His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. “I believe a fire has been started there, and you can warm yourselves while the chambers are being prepared.”

  He led the way from the entrance hall through the great hall to the drawing room, cognizant of the patter of small feet behind him, unanswered questions mounting in his mind. The drawn curtains and the sound of the rain pelting the east windows presented an ominous ambience. The fire was just beginning to take hold, and a maid was lighting candles in the room’s corners.

  He extended an arm, bidding the children to come in and be seated on the sofa. The two eldest did as he bid, but the youngest stepped quite close to him, her pointed chin tilted up, her curious amber eyes latched onto him. “Are you my uncle then?”

  Mrs. Greythorne stepped forward to draw the child back from him, but he held up his hand. “It’s all right.”

  He knelt to be at her eye level. “Yes, I’m your uncle. My name’s Jac. And you are Sophia, am I correct?”

  “Sophy,” she corrected before she tilted her head to the side, studying him. Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like my papa. I thought brothers always looked alike.”

  “Really? You don’t think we look alike?” He pressed his lips together in contemplation. “Everyone always told us we looked the same when we were children.”

  “My brothers look alike,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Have you seen them?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Not in a very long time.”

  The little girl stepped to the window, lifted the curtain, and peered into the black night, then returned her focus to him. “Mrs. Greythorne said we are close to the sea now. Is that true?”

  Taken aback by the sudden change of topic, he stammered, “Uh, yes. Very close.”

  Her small face brightened, and her smile revealed a missing tooth in front. “Can we go there tomorrow?”

  The governess stepped forward once again and put her hands on the child’s shoulders. “Sophy, there is a great deal to work out before then.”

  But the child pulled free, eyes fixed on him in expectation, awaiting his answer.

  He faltered. “I don’t know.”

  Rumblings from the front courtyard both caught his attention and released him from the conversation, and he stepped to the south window and lifted the curtain. Night had descended quickly, ushered in by the thick clouds and driving winds, and darkness shrouded the lawns. The ladies’ carriage had already been taken around to the coach house, but another carriage now stood in its stead. Two youths stood near the horses, and a thin, wiry man stepped next to them.

  Jac’s focus narrowed.

  Edwin Steerhead.

  Chapter 7

  Emotions, ripe and hot, ripped through Jac, each one more intense than the last.

  His brother was dead.

  His nieces and nephews were now entrusted to his care.

  He’d barely had time to process the news, and now Edwin Steerhead, with his stark countenance and arrogant expression, was standing in his study.

  Jac tugged at his neckcloth and jabbed at the fire with the poker, buying time to make sense of what was happening. He garnered his self-discipline, forced his temper to remain in check, and turned to face the man.

  Steerhead was exactly as he remembered him. The years had seemed to have little effect on his appearance. If anything had changed, his waistcoat seemed finer. The leather of his boots richer. Jac had heard the rumors of his brother’s financial success, and it appeared that success extended to those he worked with as well.

  If Steerhead was uncomfortable with the idea of interacting with Jac again, he gave no indication. He nestled back in the emerald wingback chair, retrieved his carved snuffbox from his breast pocket, and inhaled deeply. Smug, he lifted his hawk-like nose and surveyed the cluttered room before he returned the snuffbox to its place. “I never thought I would see the inside of these walls again.”

  “And yet here you are.” Jac did not apologize for his cold tone. He leaned with his back against the oak mantelpiece, bracing himself for the conversation ahead.

  Steerhead chuckled, gave a sniff, and crossed one long leg over the other. “I am judging by your reception that you didn’t receive my letter.”

  “Your assumption would be correct.”

  After a pensive pause, Steerhead stood and crossed the large room to the side table to retrieve the brandy decanter. “I do hate to be the bearer of bad news.”

  Jac tossed another log on the fire and brushed the debris off his palms. It would be no use to prolong this conversation. Bluntness was best. “How did Randall die?”

  “A riding accident.” The explanation came in a rush, followed by the swish of brandy swirling into the glass. “He was hunting. His horse stumbled as he jumped a fence. Randall fell off and his horse fell across his torso. I did write to you.”

  Jac’s stomach tightened at the nonchalant delivery describing his brother’s death, and unexpected tears burned his eyes. Refusing to show emotion, he blinked them away. “And you did not think it odd that I failed to respond?”

  “No. There hasn’t been time.” Steerhead studied the painting above the side table with feigned interest. “Besides, you and Randall were not exactly on friendly terms. I would have suspected your lack of response was intentional.”

  “He was still my brother.” Jac clenched his jaw. Engaging in a battle at this time would not be fruitful. “Why did you bring his children here?”

  Steerhead’s bushy eyebrows rose. “He named you as guardian.”

  Jac scoffed. “Randall hadn’t spoken one word to me in five years, and even before that his opinion of me was not high. You expect me to believe that he named me guardian of his children?”

  “You are correct; his opinion of you was not high.” Steerhead returned to the chair, retrieved a leather portfolio, and pulled a stack of papers from within. “His decision was a surprise to me as well. But I must say that even though he was dying, he was very lucid, and since I was present at the time, I could not doubt his competency.”

  Jac accepted the outstretched document. With a frown he angled the papers toward the firelight. He scanned them, unable to read the words fast enough. Clearly
his brother had amassed much more than Jac realized to require such a lengthy will.

  “You’ll find the part you’re looking for at the top of the second page.”

  Jac cast a sideways glance at Steerhead before he turned to the page.

  And yet there it was. He read the paragraph. Read it again.

  In the event of Randall’s death, he, Jac Twethewey, was to assume guardianship of all five children until each one reached the age of majority.

  Jac’s face grew hot; his ears burned.

  He could only stare at the foreign handwriting.

  It had been one thing to hear the terms from Steerhead’s mouth. It was another thing entirely to see them written in ink. He leafed through the pages until the last, noting his brother’s signature, recent date, and binding seal.

  Steerhead cleared his throat. “I can see this is a shock, but a man with property and holdings such as yours should have no problem caring for such a flock. You are, after all, their closest living relative now.”

  Jac stiffened. At the rate things were progressing, he feared he’d not have enough money to see him to the end of the year, let alone if he were to add several more mouths. A thought brightened him. “His wife had family, did she not?”

  “You’re correct.” Steerhead nodded. “Originally, his wife’s sister and husband were appointed as guardians. But when faced with death, Randall changed his mind. If I recall correctly, I believe the expression he used was ‘the lesser of two evils.’”

  If the words were intended to sting, Jac felt none of it.

  Steerhead took the stack of papers from Jac, licked the tip of his forefinger, and leafed through the pages until he found the one he sought. “The details are explicit. You’ll receive this amount per annum for each child while they are minors. This should more than amply cover their needs and care.” He pointed to another line. “This is the amount for each girl’s dowry. The oldest boy will inherit property upon his twenty-first birthday. It’s currently held in trust until that time. A small separate trust has been set up for the younger boy. Financially they shouldn’t be a burden.”