The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  The numbers blurred and swam before him. The children were going to stay with him. He was responsible. He could barely think beyond that fact. He swallowed, trying to focus on what the man was saying.

  “In an effort to prevent you from sending them to boarding schools, which your brother was adamantly against, Randall made arrangements to retain both the governess and the tutor to oversee the children’s education. Fortunately for you, they’ve both agreed to stay on, and I will be in touch with them regularly. They are employed by the trust, and their compensation will come from the trust—from me.”

  Jac thought of the woman clad in black who had mistaken him for a hired hand. He had only briefly seen the tutor—a man with dark hair and eyes.

  “As you can see, we are dealing with a large sum of money. But he said that even though he did not agree with everything regarding Penwythe Hall, at the end of the day you were one to be trusted. As he requested, I will continue to oversee this trust until the last money is distributed.”

  The thought of being tied to Steerhead for at least another decade did not bode well. Jac forced his fingers through his hair and tugged at his dirty waistcoat.

  “Randall had his faults,” Steerhead continued. “There is no disloyalty in that statement, I believe, for he would admit it himself. Who among us does not? But if there was one thing he was determined to be successful at, it was the care of his children.”

  Moisture gathered on the palms of Jac’s hands, and his coat suddenly felt too tight. Too binding.

  Steerhead sobered. “I am not a man given to emotion. If I recollect correctly, neither are you. But you know as well as I do how the evildoers in the world would prey on these children, privileged and not without resources, without you. You’re their blood. It’s your responsibility to see they are looked after.”

  As much as it pained him to admit it, Steerhead was right. Jac and Randall had once been in a similar situation. What if their aunt and uncle had not taken them in after their mother died?

  Was this fate’s way of coming back around? What was done for him, he must do for another?

  From the distance a childlike voice echoed, then footsteps followed.

  Jac did not know what the future held, but he knew that things could not possibly continue as they had been.

  * * *

  After a quick meal of cheese, bread, and cold meat in the kitchen, Delia and the girls were ushered to an upstairs bedchamber. They’d not seen Mr. Twethewey again since Mrs. Bishop escorted them to the kitchen, nor did Delia anticipate they’d see him again before morning.

  A fire had been lit in the room’s grate, and scattered candles illuminated the square bedchamber. As promised, their trunks had been delivered and now stood at the foot of the bed.

  At one time the room must have been quite grand. A canopied bed with faded crimson curtains was anchored on the north wall. A thick brown-and-gray rug covered the planked wooden floor, and an elaborately carved mahogany wardrobe stood adjacent to the bed. A compact writing desk was positioned neatly between the curtained windows, and a sitting area with two chairs and a settee flanked the fire. Despite the chamber’s tired elegance, a layer of dust and the stale air spoke to its disuse.

  Delia ushered the girls to the sitting area. “Come now, let’s find your nightclothes. You’ll be much more comfortable.”

  “Are we all really going to sleep in this room?” Sophy gaped at the space.

  Trying to steer the conversation in a more positive direction, Delia knelt by the trunk and unfastened the latch. “Mrs. Bishop said that no other rooms were prepared, but tomorrow we’ll be given new chambers. Now, where did we put your hairbrushes?”

  Delia’s efforts were distracted when Hannah, easily the most sensitive of the three girls, dropped to the chair and stared at the fire. “Julia was right. He doesn’t even want us here. He barely spoke with us.”

  “Oh no, Hannah. Don’t think that. He was caught off guard by our arrival, that’s all.” Delia forced cheerfulness to her tone. “I’m sure that in the morning things will seem quite different.”

  Sophy, oblivious to her sister’s concerns, removed the satin ribbon securing her hair and shook out the damp locks. “This room is scary.”

  Delia followed her gaze. The firelight cast long, moving shadows on the ceiling’s chipped plasterwork and reflected on the intimidating carving of a deer on the wardrobe. “We just need more light.” She spied another candle on the desk and lit it. “There.”

  Delia assisted the girls out of their traveling dresses and into their nightclothes and then began to unpack the first trunk, sorting out gowns and underthings for the next day. She was hesitant to unpack too much since their accommodations would likely change, but after two days of travel, the wrinkles in the fabric would be set, and she doubted there would be time for ironing.

  As she shook out the first gown, she disrupted the dust in the room, and it swirled about her. Lifting her hand to her nose to prevent a sneeze, she moved to the closest window. The long brass handle squeaked in protest as she turned it, and the ancient hinges groaned as she pushed the pane outward.

  “What are you doing?” Julia cried out, pausing in her task of brushing her curly black hair. “It’s storming! Rain will come in.”

  “Ah, but it is so musty in here.” Delia pulled back the curtain, allowing the cool breeze to curl in further. “We need the fresh air.”

  Delia turned back to the window. And fresh the air was. She inhaled deeply.

  The sea was just over a mile from Penwythe Hall, but she could have sworn she tasted sea salt on the air. The accompanying scent, whether real or imagined, stirred an ache within her. Memories, like strikes of summer lightning, flashed and blinded. She forced the invasive, uncomfortable thoughts to the back of her mind and returned her attention to the task of readying the girls for a night’s rest.

  Before long her charges, clad in dry nightclothes and with freshly braided hair, nestled in the clean bedding. Sleep came quickly for them, undoubtedly a gentle reprieve from the day’s uncertainties. A maid had taken their wet things down to the kitchen to dry, and now all was quiet and still, save for the fire popping in the grate and the wind billowing the crimson curtains at the window.

  Delia, too, in an effort to ward off the day’s plaguing chill, exchanged her damp traveling gown and cloak for a fresh chemise and a flannel nightdress.

  With the girls slumbering, all was finally quiet.

  After extinguishing all the candles save for one, she pulled one of the sitting area chairs next to the open window and perched very close to the ledge, angling herself to be out of the wetness but close enough to drink in the rain’s delicious scent. She let loose her hair, setting aside pin after pin, and began to methodically brush the long, straight strands, the steadiness and habit of each stroke bringing about a fragile sense of familiarity, calm, and normalcy.

  Never again had she thought she would see Cornwall’s gorse and heather on the open moorland or drink in the salty scent of the sea air. Her marriage—and the privileged yet strained life that accompanied it—seemed a million miles away, as if it had happened in a dream, nay, a nightmare.

  The nostalgic sensation stirring within her was more bittersweet than she expected, for she did have happy memories here. It was on these moors that she first gave her heart to another and first held her baby in her arms.

  But it was also the site of her greatest tragedies.

  Her beloved babe was now in the graveyard, and she’d never again feel her husband’s embrace.

  The pain of reality outweighed the joys of the memories. Her mother-in-law’s warning rang in her ears as boldly as if it had just been spoken the previous day.

  “If you’ve any sense in you, you’ll ne’er return to Cornwall. You’ve betrayed the Greythornes, and none will forget.”

  The Greythornes would have no idea that she had returned to Cornwall. Penwythe Hall was nearly twenty miles from Greythorne House and twenty-five miles f
rom her brother’s home in Whitecross. She was a simple governess now. No longer was she regarded as the vicar’s daughter or Robert Greythorne’s wife. Who would care she was here? Furthermore, how would the Greythornes ever learn of her return?

  And yet her heart was uneasy.

  At times she could throw herself into her work and forget about it momentarily, but the thoughts would invade her mind at the oddest times. She’d fixate on them, as if not giving them the attention they demanded ultimately led her to succumb to them. The longer she was away, the stronger the fear grew.

  She had something the Greythornes wanted—and she doubted their desire for it would diminish with time.

  Chapter 8

  Morning dawned fair and serene over Penwythe Hall, a sharp contrast to the storm that raged all the midnight hours. Ethereal mists hovered over the gardens and the low-lying spaces, and the sunlight glistened on the dewy lanes and stretched long over the verdant lawns. Distant seabirds welcomed the weather’s change with their chirpy song, and the breeze raced through the budding trees, weaving a melody of its own.

  Despite the tranquility that had descended, Jac was anything but at ease.

  He’d never retired for the night.

  It had been too odd to return to his own chambers, knowing that so many strangers slumbered on the other side of the walls and just down the corridor. Instead, he passed the sluggish hours in his study, accompanied only by his hunting dog, Cadwur, and wrestled with the truth.

  Randall.

  Dead.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  And yet there were five reasons he must believe it, and they were all asleep upstairs.

  At dawn he’d moved to his bedchamber to wash, don fresh clothing, and attempt to remove the dirt from under his nails that the previous day in the fields had afforded. He shaved the shadow of a beard and washed and combed his hair.

  As the sun crept higher in the azure sky, familiar morning sounds pervaded the house. Servants’ footsteps padded on the carpeted walkways, silver clinked from the morning room, and voices echoed on the lawn as workers called to each other. Soon the house would be fully alive and ready for the new day.

  When would the children wake?

  Dozens of questions and concerns had surfaced as night stretched to morning, and he was determined to address Steerhead regarding them before he saw the children again. He made his way down through the entrance hall to his study, where Andrews was waiting for him.

  “Been looking everywhere for you,” the steward blurted before Jac crossed the threshold. “Steerhead’s leaving.”

  “What?”

  Andrews nodded, his hazel eyes wide. “He’s ordered the carriage in the north courtyard. Said he’s leaving immediately.”

  Frowning, Jac stepped to the east window, jerked the handle, and pushed the pane open. He leaned over the sill and looked northward. Four horses stood at the ready, tethered to the second carriage that had arrived the previous night. Jac muttered and yanked the window closed.

  There was far too much to discuss for Steerhead to leave now. Jac rushed from his study and emerged into the north courtyard.

  Mr. Steerhead was already inside the vehicle. The carriage groaned into motion, and the harnesses creaked as the horses strained against them.

  Jac sprinted across the broad courtyard, and once he caught up with the carriage, he trotted alongside and pounded on the side to get the driver’s attention. When it stopped, he pulled open the door.

  Steerhead leaned forward, annoyance twisting his face. “Well now, what’s this?”

  “Where are you going?” Jac’s breath heaved from the run, and he held the door ajar.

  “London, of course. You’re not the only business I must tend to on your brother’s behalf.”

  Steerhead moved to close the door, but Jac held it firm. “There’s more to discuss before you scurry away.”

  Steerhead chuckled with a shrug. “My good man, I can’t imagine what. I’ve delivered the children, communicated the will’s terms, and lined your pockets with enough money to keep the children in abundant luxury for months. My obligation has been met. Now, if you’ll let go of the door, I’m expected in London.”

  A strange sense of panic trickled through Jac, slow at first, then hot and searing. He wasn’t ready to be left with the children. Not yet.

  But Steerhead was right. The children were under his care now. What else could be done?

  Hesitantly, and unwilling to concede, Jac released the door and stepped back.

  “Best of luck to you, Twethewey.” Steerhead’s expression grew smug, and he snatched the door shut, then knocked on the roof of the carriage. Before Jac could respond, the carriage rumbled away into the morning’s low-hanging mist.

  Jac stared at the retreating carriage and only looked away when Andrews stepped to his side. “I’ve never liked that old goat.”

  They stood in silence until the carriage disappeared down the lane and curved at the north orchard’s edge. All was still again, frustratingly still, before Andrews broke the silence. “Have you sent word to your aunt about this?”

  Aunt Charlotte.

  The woman who’d raised both Randall and him.

  The woman who’d nursed their wounds, taught them right from wrong, and provided safety when their young worlds were forever altered.

  Yes, Jac had thought of her. In truth, it had been one of the most painful points of this entire scenario. Someone would have to tell her, and he was the one to do it.

  “I’ll go to her yet this morning.” Jac sniffed.

  Andrews fell into step with Jac as they walked back toward Penwythe Hall. “Mrs. Bishop should have breakfast laid in the morning room before long. The governess told her the children take their breakfast at eight o’clock.”

  Jac looked to the sun, now vibrant and glowing in the eastern sky. It had to be nearing that hour. “Very good. Reiterate the need for the staff to heed the tutor’s and governess’s requests regarding the nursery and schoolroom, will you? Do whatever necessary to see they’re comfortable and have what they need.”

  He left Andrews in the entrance hall and made his way to the morning room, his movements growing slower with each step. A foreign sensation pulsed in his chest as he approached the familiar space now filled with the sounds of youthful chatter. The thought of the five souls on the other side of those walls drummed up long-suppressed feelings within him.

  Regret. Guilt. Sadness.

  He and Randall had argued. Fought. They’d clashed on many fronts to the point their once-solid relationship crumbled.

  Now Randall was dead.

  Nothing they’d argued about mattered anymore.

  The morning room was as bright and cheery as any day, but the chamber that had seemed so large when he dined alone now seemed far too small a space. The boys had pulled a bench up to the table, and the chairs were so close they touched one another.

  Upon his entrance the children stood, their efforts not to overturn the crowded chairs as they did so evident.

  His confident steps slowed. How different they looked by daylight. The children continued to remain standing in silence, an act of respect he remembered from his own boyhood.

  His gaze fell on the eldest boy, who could almost be mistaken for a man, so broad were his shoulders. The sight was like a punch to the gut. He was the perfect likeness of his father, from the thick shock of black hair, to the unmistakable shade of blue of his eyes, to the cleft in his chin. It was all there.

  He realized they were waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Uncle.” Their voices rang in flat unison before they were once again seated.

  They resumed their breakfast but remained silent. His chair’s legs scraped noisily against the wooden floor as Jac pulled it out to sit. Almost instantly the footman was at his elbow to pour him a cup of coffee.

  The little girl sitting next to him kept staring at him with curious, bright eyes.


  Uncomfortable with the silence and the girl’s scrutiny, he cleared his throat again, then sipped the steaming coffee and set the cup back on the linen tablecloth. Jac lifted his gaze to the other adults present. He’d spoken only with the governess and was briefly introduced to the tutor. What were their names? Simon and Greyhouse? Greythorne?

  The previous night the governess’s bonnet had hidden most of her features, and he’d been far too distracted by the events to even take much notice of her. But today sunlight filled the room, bouncing from the pale-blue walls and illuminating the occupants, giving him a new opportunity to see them.

  The governess was an attractive woman. Her straight, dark hair was confined in a tidy chignon at the base of her neck. Even from the distance spanning the table, he could make out long lashes framing gray eyes, a gently sloping nose, and dimples whenever she spoke or changed expressions. She possessed an uncommon air, as if completely comfortable in this new situation that was anything but.

  The tutor was seated next to her, a newspaper folded across his arm. In contrast to the governess’s collected air, his tidy appearance—dark-green coat, immaculately tied cravat, cleanly shaven jaw—could not mask his annoyance.

  Regardless of his impressions, Jac would have to rely on them in the coming days, for he knew nothing about children or what was needed to make them feel at home.

  The silence—the deafening silence—had to be broken. “I trust you all slept well?”

  A chorus of soft “yes, sirs” echoed around the table.

  He looked up to see the governess watching him. Her expression communicated that she understood how awkward this must be for him. Or perhaps that was merely what he wanted to see.

  “Children”—she lowered her napkin, her voice gentle—“your uncle is very kind to open his lovely home to you. Are you not grateful?”

  They nodded but no one smiled.

  “I am sorry you had to share chambers,” he managed. “Had we known of your impending arrival, we’d have prepared. But there is an entire upper level in the west wing, and you are welcome to it. Your father and I stayed there when we were children, and it’s being prepared as we speak.”