“I feel it necessary to remind you, Miss Dawson, the children are your pupils, not your charges. Decisions about their welfare are now my responsibility. It appears that my nephew feels obliged to give in to your fancies and concede to your every wish. No doubt that is because you have found how amiable men can be under your womanly charms.”
Clara stood still, her head held high even as a sour taste swam in her mouth.
“You do however, have a champion in my nephew who has insisted you remain, despite him being unable to supply me with any of your references. So, we are at a standstill. I must find out for myself if you are a naive girl who has fallen for my nephew and his many tricks, or if you are a trollop as I originally determined.”
“I am neither,” Clara said, unable to bear another mark against her person. “And there is no such connection between myself and your nephew. I was hired to teach the children. That is what I have done since my arrival. That is what I shall continue to do.”
“I hope you also endeavor to watch your tone in future conversations and remember your place. You are a governess. In my house.” Lady Margaret took a sip of her tea, her voice chillingly level. “And you’re to be the moral compass for my nieces?” the woman continued, placing down her teacup delicately. “You do not fool me, Miss Dawson, You are nothing more than a conniving money grabber—a husband catcher! But my nephew will not have you. He is a terrible and corrupt man, but even he is above wedding the governess.”
Clara fought to conduct herself with the manners of a lady, but after being somewhat liberated from those expectations while at Burton Hall, she spoke up.
“And I, Lady Margaret, will not tolerate being spoken to as if I am no better than a gutter rat. I may be the family’s governess and therefore an employee, but I refuse to be disrespected in such a manner. I am well-educated and see that the children receive a good and proper education.”
“I will not tolerate impropriety,” Lady Margaret said, her face a mask without a flicker of the hate Clara sensed brewing beneath that pristine surface. “You may go.”
The next time Clara saw Bly, she vowed to spit in his face for this. She should never have allowed herself to be tempted by his dangerous kisses. It had been her fault for wavering. He had even warned her those weeks back that he was not be trusted. His promises of protection meant nothing, not if he thought it was safe to leave with Lady Margaret in charge.
*
The clouds hung heavy overhead, swollen with the certainty of rain. The threat of a sprinkle wouldn’t fix the mood clinging to Bly. He felt just as black as the clouds. With another strike of the hammer, the rock in front of him split into two, both halves falling away with a wobble over the long grass of the field in the park.
“You’re better with explosives,” Graham said, walking up behind him.
Bly straightened, wiping his brow. “Unless you want to help, I’m in no mood for company.”
Graham came up next to him, slapping a slender hand against Bly’s back. “You have moods now? England is softening you.”
Bly shrugged off his mentor’s hand, bent, and hefted one half of the large rock, then dropped it onto the wall he had begun rebuilding earlier that morning. There were still repairs to be done to the interior of the house, but he could not suffer through another minute with his aunt.
“England is hell, Graham. Why are you still here?”
Graham nodded, then stepped onto the crumbling stones on the left side of the wall. “It’s a fair question. One I should ask you.”
“Then ask.” Bly repositioned the stone, wedging it between the others he had broken. Blood smeared across the gray surface as he moved the stone side to side before it settled. He straightened, wiping his cracked palm against his pants, then reached for his canteen in the grass.
“You really are in a mood. And so talkative, too.”
Like Barnes, Graham was as tall as he was flippant. The two were close to identical, all except for how Graham preferred to control situations from afar. He never did like getting dirty. So Bly had been used as the muscle on missions and Barnes had been used as an assassin when the occasion called for discretion, and the British crown benefited while Graham controlled them both as if a skilled puppeteer.
“I’m not interested in another mission, Graham. You’ve been here a month now and my answer hasn’t changed. It won’t.”
The gray in his mentor’s temples flashed silver as he quickly turned to Bly. “I do so love my accommodations at the Bee and Thistle, but I was hoping you would have a different answer for me today. I can’t leave until you do, you see.”
“You’re a cheeky bastard,” Bly said with a heartless laugh. Soft voices of the children floated over the hill and Bly turned, squinting his eyes to focus on the figures running out of the house. Especially on the woman in the gray dress.
“I’m impatient, Ravensdale. You said yourself you’re leaving. Your aunt has arrived. Your responsibility is over. Now stop being a goddamn saint and leave. You don’t owe Walter any of this.”
“I owe them,” he said, nodding to the children racing around the garden. And Clara. She was bent over James, a kite clutched in her hands. Hands that Bly hadn’t been able to forget since they kissed in the library three nights ago. He had drowned in her that evening, in the power that rested upon those pale lips of hers. And because he was a coward, or perhaps because he knew he had to leave, he had made an extra effort to avoid her.
“I know you’ve been away from England for some time, but men don’t marry the family’s governess.”
Bly snapped his head back to Graham.
“That is why you’re staying, isn’t it? You’ve fallen for that prudish Miss Dawson.”
“Graham, is there a reason you decided to track me down this afternoon? I have a wall to build.”
“You have passage to secure. Bags to pack. We’re heading to Cairo before you return to India.”
It was as though Bly were talking to the stone wall itself. “You know my answer. Now help me out or leave.”
Graham stretched his legs, admiring his polished shoes for a moment. He liked to preen like a peacock when he wasn’t drinking. It was remarkable the man was a successful spy at all. “Do you know anything about the woman you’re throwing your future away for? I’m surprised you hired her at all.” He stood and stretched, then spun back around to face Bly, pointing his hand toward the house. “There’s a reason she’s here in Yorkshire, and she’s not to be trusted. Do yourself a favor and pack your bags now before you make a mistake.”
“I’ve had enough of your riddles, Graham. Go track down Barnes if you want to play intellectual.”
“She arrived injured, did she not? Maybe even desperate for the position? Well, I can answer that last one. She certainly was to have taken on you lot.”
“Leave Clara alone,” Bly blurted out. As soon as her name escaped him, Graham smiled and nodded.
“So you are attached? Well, I never thought I’d see the day when the devil fell in love.”
Bly stepped forward, his fists bunching at his sides.
“All right, I’m leaving. But think about what I said, Ravensdale. Think about who you’re trusting, because that woman—” Graham pointed at Clara as she hoisted the kite up in the air with James at her side—“is not who she says is. And I’m disappointed you haven’t figured it out yet.” Graham walked away, lifting his arms in the air. “Too lovestruck. She’ll see you dead. Mark my words.”
CHAPTER NINE
Two weeks passed and Clara saw nothing more than a few glimpses of Bly as he walked the grounds with tradesman or rode off on his fine horse.
Her days were routine now. She taught the children during the day and spent the remainder of her time alone in her attic room studying her precious etiquette manuals, determined to make a positive impression on Lady Margaret, however impossible that seemed.
Mrs. Gibbs and the Nash family had been let go, and since Bly had made himself scarce, she held l
ittle hope they would ever return to their positions. That was too bad since she had grown to appreciate their help, but above all, she had grown to expect the feeling of comfort that slowly seeped into the sad house with the presence of that happy family.
There were new nurses to contend with in the nursery now, all of whom lectured the children to the point of tears. Some days, it was not just the children.
It was no secret to Lady Margaret’s staff that Clara had received special treatment before their arrival, and that was simply something that was not allowed below stairs. They called her abhorrent names and shunned her like a leper. Except for the children, Clara now lived a solitary life, fading into the background as she had always done. She was just the governess, after all. It was as it should be.
This was proper order.
So Clara was grateful for her afternoon off that day, pressing deeper into the vast park of Burton Hall. The afternoon was the last glimmer of sun and warmth before autumn crumbled into the darkness of winter. In a place such as Burton Hall, she imagined winter would be desolate and barren, and soon she would find herself in a very dark place. Not a dark place solely in the physical sense, but of a far more dangerous sort—a dark place in one’s mind and soul. A sad blackness.
The glistening of a pond through the trees was a welcomed sight. Clara tested the water with her hand, then stripped to her chemise and floated out into the depths. She stroked around in wide lazy circles, watching the birds fly across the sky. It was a long while since she enjoyed the pleasure of a swim. She smelled the decay of the changing season in the air, starkly contrasted against the radiant warmth of the water. Clara closed her eyes and breathed deeply, thankful for the quiet around her.
She heard something as her head lolled back in the water, certain it was the birds overhead. With another deep breath, she remembered the warmth of Bly’s body pressed to hers, the way his hand curved to her body, when all at once, a hard grasp on her ankle forced her under with a violent pull.
She gasped for air as she struggled to keep her head above water, screaming during the few moments she was above the water line as her body catapulted back to shore. Clara was deposited with enough force onto the grassy shore that air rushed out of her lungs upon impact. She looked up with stinging eyes, gasping for breath and shivering from cold, at a menacing shadow that towered over her.
It growled.
She screamed as the shadow leaned closer and clamped a large hand over her mouth. The light struck just so to reveal the hazel of Bly’s eyes glowering down at her.
“Quiet,” he barked. She felt the power of his hands as his fingertips pressed upon the flesh around her mouth. The gentleness of his touch had vanished. Clara was frightened by the man that confronted her now. This man, the one who appeared as if he was about to murder her, was the one who made no apologies as he conquered the world. This man was the devil the others whispered about in the village.
“I don’t ever want to see you in this pond again.” His hand still held her mouth quiet, his voice low and menacing. She coughed and sputtered water against his palm until she choked, struggling to be free of his hold, her throat burning.
“Never. Again.” His fingers tightened against her mouth as his eyes widened into a savage stare. Just as suddenly, he let go and strode off into the trees soaking wet, without a word more.
Clara trembled, bracing herself with her arms folded around her middle, trying to keep herself together. It was as if she let go, she would simply crumble, falling into an insane sadness from which she would never recover.
It was no use. She sobbed beside the pond and wished, for a fleeting moment, she would catch a chill that would finally separate her from the loneliness that filled her heart.
*
The cup of tea clutched in Clara’s hands did little to warm her. She sunk lower into the worn velvet seat nestled by the tall windows of the music room. A few hours had passed since Bly had dragged her from the pond, a few hours which felt more like on insufferable decade.
She should have retreated to her attic room, but something within in craved the autumn air. The French doors were thrown open to the outside, pouring in fresh air, washing over her until it filled her lungs. Her damp hair was pinned up, but it was slow to dry. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and swallowed another sip of tea, mindlessly staring outside into the twisted and overgrown gardens waiting for Ned’s attention. They would be waiting for a long time, as Lady Margaret hadn’t seen to hiring a gardener for the estate.
Clara was beginning to understand why Burton Hall had looked as it did when she arrived—everything truly was forgotten. The gardens were too many, the house too large, the halls too empty for a family such as the Ravensdales. They were trying to reclaim something that had already passed. There was nothing romantic about the country, she found, nor about abandoned country houses, nor with the masters of said country houses.
“I’ve heard there was quite a lover’s quarrel this afternoon, Miss Dawson.”
She slipped down the worn, nubby velvet as she attempted to right herself. Her feet hit the cold wooden floors as she met the figure of Mr. Graham in the doorway to the gardens.
“I have no idea what you are speaking of,” she said, brushing away the spilled tea on her lap. “But if you are looking for Mr. Ravensdale, I suggest visiting the house by the front door as we have a butler now.”
Behind Mr. Graham, the afternoon looked rather beautiful in its brilliance of oranges and golds, as though the last of days of autumn would set the countryside of Yorkshire on fire. With the devil on the loose, perhaps everything was burning. He had certainly set off as if there were flames nipping at his boots.
“But I came to see you, Miss Dawson. We couldn’t have gossip spreading that I visited you, now could we? Small villages are notorious for such things.”
The man pulled out a gold case etched with a cobra from his vest pocket, opened it, and removed a slim cigarette. Everything about him was lean and slender. A man of prowess. He struck a match against the door jamb and lit the cigarette, his ankles crossed the whole time.
She felt the warning in it and straightened, setting down her cup of tea on the floor. “I must admit, I don’t know why—”
“No, no,” he said, holding out one hand as he inhaled the cigarette and puffed out perfect circles into the air. What had been pure autumn air suddenly became clouded with the scent of cloves and tobacco. “I will make this easy for the both of us. I came to tell you to stay away from your employer.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“He’s an important man, you see. I can’t have him getting tangled up with the governess. I don’t want details. I couldn’t care less if you lift your skirts for him or if he plans on making an honest woman out of you…”
Clara stood, her hand fisted at her chest full of her ratty shawl. “I will not be spoken to like that, Mr. Graham. This entire discussion is completely inappropriate.”
He pushed off from the doorway and walked to the piano, his free hand brushing over the yellowed keys. She winced as he struck a menacing low ‘F.’ The out-of-tune piano wire reverberated around the nearly empty room, its impact landing at her gut around the same time a chill set in.
“Inappropriate is for well-bred ladies, Miss Dawson. You are hired help. And furthermore, I just witnessed a destructive Mr. Ravensdale, well into his cups at the Bee and Thistle. He always had a fondness for the drink, but to be so completely destructive means one thing—he has come to have feelings for you. That won’t do, not when I need him to return to India with me.”
Anger bubbled and brewed within her. “I have no such connection with Mr. Ravensdale and wish to have no further business with him after today. If you are so concerned, I suggest leaving to fetch him from the Bee and Thistle. As for him leaving with you, feel free to drag him away to a boat departing England today. I assure you Lady Margaret will not mind.”
Mr. Graham spun and sat back against the ke
ys. A thunderous, out-of-tune flurry of notes followed, ominous like the first brewings of a summer storm. “I’ll be frank. Bly has been with many women. You are nothing more than a convenient trollop while he’s been forced to reside in Yorkshire. You hold no special meaning to him, even if he has convinced himself otherwise.”
Clara remained silent, the memory of Bly earlier that afternoon still shaking her up inside. That was a man set on destruction, a man who held her in no real regard. She had simply let his moments of kindness get to her head. She had gotten carried away during their kiss, fantasizing that anything respectable could come of that. She was born a bastard and would remain a bastard her whole life.
“If that is all, Mr. Graham…” Her knees wobbled, the room spinning around her. She let go of the back of the seat and took two steps for the hallway before an arm reached out and grabbed her. “There is no need for this. Please, let go of me.” She attempted to yank her arm out of his grasp.
“You are going to listen to me, Miss Dawson.” He reached behind his jacket and moved it aside, removing a folded copy of the newspaper tucked beneath his vest and suspenders. “You will leave Burton Hall because I know who are you are.” He shoved the paper at her and sent her tripping into the middle of the room.
Her hands trembled as she opened the London newspaper from a month earlier. Dread welled up inside her as she landed upon his name—Shaw—closely followed by the word dead. The ground fell away but somehow she remained standing, an icy chill consuming her body.
Clara was a murderess after all.
“I’m sure this is a shock, so I’ll do you a kindness and tell you that the town’s constable is investigating. There are several suspects, including the lady companion who disappeared early this summer. The constable has a price on your head for more information, and while I’m not hurting for cash, I certainly feel obligated to do my civic duty and tell them of your whereabouts. And if Bly is too lovestruck to know he’s hired a criminal, I know his aunt will surely want you gone.”
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