The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Liam stood from the table. Someone had to remain calm. For the sake of his siblings, he’d say the words that needed to be said, even if he didn’t genuinely feel them. “Uncle Jac told Aunt that we are staying here. I believe him. You should too.”

  “But he really likes his orchards. He’s been working so hard on them.” Hannah’s forehead furrowed. “He probably likes them more than he likes us. What if he listens to Mr. Andrews?”

  Liam chewed his lip. He’d also heard the servants say as much. Money was important. It had been the item his father’s world revolved around: Securing money. Saving money. Spending money. How many times had his father pulled him aside to explain a purchase or acquisition? His father had tried to instill the idea that financial security was the only kind that mattered. Maybe Uncle Jac felt the same way.

  “I wish Mrs. Greythorne was here.” Johnny sulked. “She’d know what to do.”

  Hannah cupped her chin in her hand. “What if Aunt was right? What if Mrs. Greythorne doesn’t want to come back after going to her home? Maybe she only pretended she cared for us because Mr. Steerhead was paying her to.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Julia’s brows snapped together. “And I don’t want to hear you say that again. Oh, this is a mess.”

  Hannah tilted her head thoughtfully to the side. “Perhaps we should talk to Great-Aunt Charlotte about this.”

  Johnny shook his head, his shaggy dark hair in need of combing. “Don’t you think she would tell everything we say to Uncle Jac?”

  “Maybe.” Hannah shrugged. “But at least she likes us and wants us to stay. I can tell because she gave us extra scones and let us only pretend to do yesterday’s reading.”

  “Maybe we should just ask Uncle Jac,” suggested Julia with a shrug. “Then we would know for sure.”

  “And what if he says it’s true?” Hannah’s lower lip quivered. “What if he wants to send us away?”

  Liam hated hearing his brother and sisters in such uncertainty. Perhaps if he had been better behaved, if he had not lashed out at his uncle on more than one occasion, he’d be more inclined for them to stay.

  “No.” Liam straightened his shoulders. He was the eldest. He was the man of this family now. It was up to him to put everyone’s mind at ease. He may not be able to give the answers they wanted, but he knew who would be able to. “I don’t care what Aunt Beatrice says. The only person we can truly count on is Mrs. Greythorne. We need her. And I will go to her.”

  “Liam, you can’t!” Julia shot back, her voice rising.

  “Why not?” He shrugged, standing as tall as he could.

  Julia tilted her head to the side. “Because you are fourteen and Mrs. Greythorne said it was over twenty miles to where her brother lives. You can’t travel that far alone.”

  “I can.” He fixed his jaw. “And I will.”

  Julia shook her head vehemently. “I’ll tell Uncle. It’s dangerous, and it—”

  Liam stepped around the desk to cut her off. “Do you want to go to London and be trapped inside stuffy schoolrooms all day? At least Uncle likes us. I know he does. Aunt only wants us there because she knows I have an inheritance that will come to me one day. You may not be able to see it, but I do. I’m the one who has to be concerned about these things and make sure you are always taken care of. That’s why I should be the one to go.”

  “How do you know she just wants your inheritance?” Julia’s eyes narrowed.

  Fighting his reluctance to share what he knew, Liam forced confidence to his voice. “I didn’t tell you this because I didn’t want to scare you, but I heard the groom talking to the groundskeeper. Don’t you wonder why Mr. Steerhead hasn’t been here in so long? Before he died, Father put him in charge of all the money, but instead of helping us, Mr. Steerhead took it all for himself. We don’t have any money. If Uncle can’t afford to keep us, even if he wanted to, we might have to go to Aunt Beatrice’s anyway.”

  “There’s no money?” Sophy’s eyes grew wide. “What does that mean?”

  No one answered. A hush fell over the room, and they sat in silence for several moments.

  Hannah twisted her face. “But Mrs. Greythorne’s sister just died. You saw the letter. We can’t ask her to come back.”

  “Why not?” Liam slammed his book shut and returned it to the shelf. “If I leave now, Uncle Jac won’t even know I’m gone. Not until dinner at least.”

  “But how will you get there?” Hannah bleated.

  “Horseback.”

  “No!” Johnny shouted. “It’s dangerous.”

  “I’m a good rider. And I will stick to the main roads and go slow. I should be there by nightfall. How hard can it be? I’ll ask for directions in the village.”

  “I don’t like it.” Julia’s gaze bored into him.

  “Well, you’ll not change my mind.” Liam looked around the table. “Are we all in agreement that Mrs. Greythorne needs to know?”

  Glances were exchanged and sighs were heaved, but eventually reluctant nods circled the table.

  Julia, on the other hand, stood firm. “I think it’s a horrible idea. The groom will notice if you take the horse and don’t come back. He’ll tell Uncle.”

  Liam scoffed. “They are all far too busy with the new orchard. My mind is made up.”

  Julia’s lips twisted in a frown. She wrapped her arm around Sophy’s shoulders. “Fine. If you’re determined. But wait here.”

  The mantel clock ticked the seconds as Julia fled the room and reappeared minutes later with a small pouch. “This is all the money I have. Mind you, I don’t think you should go at all. But this is for you. Just in case.”

  Johnny piped up. “And I will go to the kitchen and sneak some food for you to take. Even if Cook sees me, she won’t think a thing of it.”

  “Good. I’ll go down and tell the groom I want a horse for a ride. I’ll leave within the half hour.” Liam drew a deep breath, his pulse racing and his nerves rattling at the adventure before him. Even so, a deep pride radiated through him. His siblings needed him. And he was going to be there for them.

  Chapter 39

  If only it would rain.

  Sweat dripped down Jac’s forehead as he exited the cider barn. He blinked it away from his eyes and looked up to the evening sky. Even now, as the purple light of twilight fell over the parched lawns, the previously absent clouds had gathered, but they only whispered a promise of relief. Their thick canopy held the heat prisoner, allowing it neither to rise to the heavens nor to blow away.

  If only the clouds would release their grip on the moisture they held within their darkening depths and let the rain flood the ground. A solid soaking would slice through the oppressive mugginess. But it hadn’t rained for weeks now. The clouds’ iron fists had not relented. Jac didn’t think it had rained since Mrs. Greythorne left over a fortnight ago.

  Mrs. Greythorne. The thought of her was plaguing him. He cut across the lawn, the dehydrated grass crunching beneath his boots. Not knowing when—or if—she’d return was haunting his waking moments and invading his dreams. The children, too, were missing her. They’d received letters from her, of course, but they had been safe, simple letters with stories of the cat in the shed or flowers in the garden. Her absence draped a listless blanket over them all, and that, coupled with the lack of rain, threatened to drive him mad.

  Never had control been further from his grip. He hated it. He felt like a horse tethered and chomping at the bit, but even if he was given his head, he didn’t know how to make the rain fall or convince Mrs. Greythorne to return home.

  He thought of her at the oddest times. This strange mix of the Hawk’s Eye Inn and Mr. Simon and the stolen trust and Mr. Steerhead swirled around him—a bitter brew, one probably better left alone—and with each day that passed, the unsettled feeling within his chest gripped tighter.

  And at the center of it all was Mrs. Greythorne.

  She had been another man’s wife. Loved another man. Borne another man’s child. Lived a
nother life.

  If she did indeed return, it would be solely for the children.

  He repeated that to himself time and time again. He dared not even consider that she might regard him in any way other than as the children’s guardian. Yet the glimmer of tears in her eyes the night she’d lost the pendant burned itself into his brain. He wanted to be the person to permanently erase all of her sadness, if he could.

  Suddenly a sharp breeze swept from the slate roof, and something warm and wet hit his cheek. And then his hand.

  He lifted his eyes to the churning sky.

  Rain. Beautiful, nourishing, warm rain was falling—a balm long overdue.

  Hope trickled through him, reaching to his fingers, his toes. He jogged back toward the house, and with each step the storm intensified. By the time he finally gripped the handle on the servants’ door, the rain fell in sheets, and that, mixed with the evening’s growing blackness, made it difficult to see where he was going.

  When Jac entered the study, Andrews was already there lighting a candle with a flint. He grinned as the candle’s flame leapt to life. “About time we got some rain, eh?”

  Jac shook the wet coat from his shoulders and spread it over the back of a chair to dry. “Let’s hope it keeps up. What are you doing?”

  “Scheduling. The earliest apples should be ready in September. The cider barn should be full throughout October and maybe even into November. After that the cider that is stored here will need to be tasted.”

  Jac nodded and stepped to the window. The rain appeared like a sudden squall from the sea that rushed the banks and then subsided. The wind howled and groaned, shaking the windowpanes. He looked heavenward. He’d been anticipating rain for days, and now that it was here, he should be happier. But the wind sounded different. The rain sounded hard. Suddenly a loud plink came from the window—like the sound of a small pebble hitting it. And then another. And another.

  Alarmed, Jac jerked toward Andrew, who had jumped to his feet.

  No.

  No, no, no, no!

  “Hail!” Jac breathed, barely able to force his voice out above a whisper.

  The men stared at each other, both knowing the implications.

  It was the one thing he had dreaded. The trees had avoided insects and even survived the dry conditions, but this?

  Jac raced toward the servants’ door and flung it open. Rain drove into his face, and the wind smacked icy bits of moisture against his cheek and pounded the linen of his shirt. But there could be no mistaking it—perfectly formed round balls of ice pummeled the ground, then bounced up with animated vigor.

  Jac stepped out into it and started to run across the lawn, but Andrews followed and grabbed his arm. “What do you think you can do for the crops? More likely you’ll get knocked senseless with the hail. It might as well be rocks falling from the sky.”

  Andrews was right. Jac returned to the corridor and paced like an animal caged. The hailstorm seemed to last an eternity—every second, every breath that passed would spell disaster for the tender fruit still maturing on the branches. He turned his eyes toward the still-open door, watching the white ice attack.

  He’d not panicked about the summer’s odd situations—about the changes in his plans or the depleted trust. He’d comforted himself with the thought that he always had his orchards to fall back on. But now all of it was threatened. All of it.

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor, sounding more like a stampede than children. Sophy reached him first. She lunged toward him, her face shiny with tears and eyes wide with alarm. “What is that? What is it?”

  He picked up her trembling frame in his arms, and she hid her face in his shoulder. Somehow he managed to get words to pass through his dry mouth. “It’s hail.”

  “When will it stop?” she shouted, her words nearly blotted out by the seemingly endless deluge of ice hitting the house. A window broke somewhere. And then another. The eerie tinkling of glass tumbling to the floor sounded over the pinging ice. Hannah screamed and Sophy tightened in his arms.

  “I want Mrs. Greythorne!” Sophy sobbed.

  He looked around at their shadowed faces. All wide eyed. All frightened, even Julia. He put an arm around Johnny and drew him close. “It will be over soon.”

  And just like that, the pounding stopped. The noise shifted from the sharp ping of ice on glass to the patter of rain.

  Relief broke their serious expressions, and then he noticed an absence. “Where’s Liam?”

  The children exchanged glances, the whites of their eyes bright in the dark corridor. He was no expert on children, but he was learning, and they were up to something.

  Jac knelt and returned Sophy to the floor. When they did not respond, he repeated, “Where’s Liam?”

  Growing frustrated, he propped his hands on his hips. “Either someone tells me now where Liam is or—”

  “He went to get Mrs. Greythorne.”

  “What?” Perhaps one of the balls of hail had struck him on the head a bit too hard when he’d run out onto the lawn. The words sounded ridiculous, and yet the somber expression on Julia’s face hinted that she was in earnest. “What do you mean, he went to get Mrs. Greythorne?”

  Julia stepped closer. “We were afraid you were going to send us to live with Aunt Beatrice. We wanted her back. So he went to fetch her.”

  Anger shot through him, trailed by frantic concern. He whipped his head to look through the open door. It was black now. The hail had ceased, but rain still pounded the lawn. Breathless, he whirled back around. “When did he leave?”

  Julia swallowed in obvious hesitation. “Late this morning.”

  “How did he get there?”

  “A horse.”

  Dread sank in his stomach. The boy was a fair horseman, but the journey could be a difficult one—not to mention a long one. Liam would be riding through open moors. Through rocky terrain. Jac had to go get him.

  “I want all of you to return to your chambers, is that clear?”

  “Why? Where are you going?” cried Johnny, eyes wide.

  “To get your brother.”

  Chapter 40

  In a rush Jac flew through Penwythe. Heart pounding, pulse racing, he grabbed his oilskin coat and wide-brimmed hat and tossed a change of clothing into a satchel. He reached for his pistol, thinking how dangerous it could be to traverse Cornwall’s roads at night, especially in the south. All the while his mind created horrific thoughts of what dangers could befall a fourteen-year-old boy on such a ride.

  He bid the children farewell, gave them last-minute instructions to mind Mrs. Bishop and not to leave the property, and then met Andrews, who had his best horse saddled and ready for him.

  “Want me to go with you?” Andrews had saddled a horse for himself.

  “No. I need you to stay here and assess the damage to the orchards. Hopefully this hail was localized. We won’t know for sure until the light of day.”

  “I’ll ride with you to the main road then. We’ll pass the east orchard and can check it on our way out. I’ve already sent Willoughs and Johnson out to assess the others as best they can in the darkness.”

  “What could Liam possibly have been thinking?” Jac said as he did his best to guide his horse through the puddles on the now-soft road.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s fourteen.”

  Jac shook his head. “No, he’s only fourteen. How does he even know where he’s going?”

  It didn’t take long to reach the east orchard. Jac slid off his horse before the animal even came to a complete stop and stumbled across the spongy ground until he reached the first tree. He grabbed the first fruit he saw and held it close to examine it.

  His heart lurched.

  Gash marks had sliced through the tender green skin. He turned it over in his hand.

  He snatched another apple. Then another. Those, too, bore the dents and ripped flesh of hail’s damage. He gripped the apples tight and then let them fall to the ground. They were useless now
. They were not mature enough to pick, and with wounds like this, they would be ripe for insects and disease. They would need to be removed.

  He looked down the black row. Were they all like this?

  He stood in the silent night. The rain was little more than a drizzle now. The wind had calmed. The waterlogged leaves hung limply from their battered branches. The beaten fruit gathered in pockmarked balls at his feet.

  But as he stared at the apples mingling with the thawing hail, his heart and thoughts turned to Liam. The boy was what was important in this moment. The apples and the orchards would have to wait until he was certain the boy was well.

  After instructing Andrews to oversee the orchards, Jac took off down the south road with fresh determination pulsing through his veins.

  * * *

  Night had fallen over the vicarage in Whitecross, and rain fell in soft, gentle waves against the modest home.

  The melodic, soothing rain was refreshing. Weeks had passed with little more than a sprinkling, and a relentless humidity had plagued the area. Even now, Delia and her brother were seated in the low-ceilinged sitting room after the children had retired for bed, listening to the rain’s rhythmic tapping. The candle’s light flickered on her needlework, but she could barely concentrate on the task. Her stitches slowed as she wondered if it was raining at Penwythe Hall.

  She found herself thinking of the estate a great deal. It crept through the cracks of her simplest thoughts. The vicarage gardens reminded her of Hannah and her love of flowers. The paintings on the walls brought to mind Mrs. Angrove. And so many times her heart turned to Mr. Twethewey and their unfinished conversation. Her mind had mapped out what subsequent conversations could be like. But the more time that lapsed, the more unreachable those memories seemed.

  She glanced up. Round spectacles were balanced on the bridge of her brother’s nose, and he had the newspaper angled close to his face. His pipe balanced between his fingers, the smoke curling up, and the candle’s light flickered odd shapes on his freshly shaven cheek.